


Forget Me Not

by msariadneoliver



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Freak Show
Genre: F/F, Lesbian Romance, Slight Canon Divergence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-24 16:49:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13815372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msariadneoliver/pseuds/msariadneoliver
Summary: Irina, with her outsider's blood and lack of any real prospects, knew that she was nothing short of lucky for gaining such a steady position as a maid for a wealthy widow and her spoiled, if not volatile son. Perhaps it wasn't wise to fall in love with her employer or to indulge so in their fast growing friendship. Not with everything for both of them to lose. OFFICIALLY ON HIATUS





	1. Chapter One

**I.**  
_September 3, 1952_  
In for another sleepless night, knowing the entire place was hers for the time being, Irina took the opportunity to polish every piece of silverware the Mott family owned. One in a series of steps towards completing all those little tasks the previous maid had left in her wake, with the added benefit of working to heavy her eyes and clear her mind. One of her latest discoveries from the library, a thick, colorful book all about Ancient Egypt, sat open in her lap, its text and bright illustrations diverting her attention every now and again. She had kept it open to the same spot for about an hour now, not wanting to damage the pages with her polish stained, rubber glove covered hands. Had she the nerve, she would have put on one of her records to fill the vast, eery silence. Perhaps some Andrews sisters, or, were she in a more nostalgic sort of mood, a little Tchaikovsky. She might have, if she had any idea when Mrs. Mott and her son would return. They were due back any time now. She chose instead to wait for another night when she had better immersed herself into what was officially her new home.  
Once she had every solitary piece of silverware looking bright and shining new, reducing her cloth to little more than a damp, black crumple, Irina set her book aside and cast off to see what other household chores needed doing. She opted to stick with tasks that required gloves, figuring that was the practical choice while she still had them on. The dusting, the wiping down of countertops, the linoleum floor in the spare downstairs bathroom that was long overdue for a good scrubbing. She went from room to room, navigating her way through the house with a relative ease, and she found that the long echo of the hallways had become almost commonplace for her. A far cry from her first week, most definitely. As she worked and moved about, she began to sing one of her father’s old drinking songs under her breath, the native Russian falling seamlessly from her lips. It kept her mind as rigidly focused as it could be; on the familiar melody, on her meticulous cleaning, anything that wasn’t her dream from last night.  
She had had the dream again. For the third night running. It was beginning to border on ridiculous, and she wasn’t sure just how much more she could tolerate. Her sleeping patterns were already substandard enough without the addition of hours lying awake in the dark, those unsavory and illicit thoughts flooding through her head, placing her in desperate need of a cold shower. _Vyrozhdennyy Durak._ Was her own inner chastising, thought numerous times over the last few months, every time that dream overtook her mind, and most certainly then as she worked at the grout caught in the bathroom tiles. _Irina, you degenerate fool._  
She finished up in the bathroom, had all her supplies gathered up ready to call it a night. She had descended the hallway, and turned the corner, before the presence of another person caused her to let out a little shriek, and sent her bucket of rags and soap clattering to the ground. She had nearly collided into Mrs. Mott, home from her evening engagement with her son earlier than expected, and who, despite wearing heeled shoes, evidently moved like a mouse through the empty corridors.  
“Oh, goodness!” Mrs. Mott exclaimed, with a start of her own. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were there.” Irina found herself facing away from her employer’s gaze, and ducked quickly to the ground to gather up her strewn supplies.  
“I’m so sorry Mrs. Mott. I-I, er, I was just catching up on some - on some of the chores that needed done, I mean - since the house was empty and - and, I’m sorry. I was just finishing and - I’ll be out of the way in just a moment.” She could barely hear herself over the blood pounding in her ears, the heat in her cheeks numbing everything else.  
“No, it’s quite alright, dear,” Mrs. Mott assured her, kindly. “I only wanted to make sure Dandy hadn’t left half the lights on in the house again.” She chuckled, nervously, and Irina dared look up to see that the older woman, too, seemed to have developed a pink tinge in her cheeks.  
“See? I told you I hadn’t, Mother.” Irina flinched at the voice of the other Mott, which rang out in that all too familiar harsh tone. Dandy practically stomped into view, a glower spread across his young, chiseled face. His arms were folded tightly across his chest, wrinkling the pastel yellow cashmere, and even still, he seemed to take the entire atmosphere into his grasp, like it was a set of poker chips. He graced the young maid with a single partway glance, before reverting back to his usual habit of disregarding her completely, and turned to glare daggers at his mother.  
“Now, if you’re quite finished accusing me of things the help’s been doing, and completely ruining my night, Mother,” The last word dripped with an alarming amount of venom, “I’m going to bed, and nobody better disturb me.” With that, he gave the tube of Ajax a little kick, sending it rolling towards the wall, away from Irina’s reach, and stalked away. Both women visibly flinched when they heard his bedroom door slam with a shutter. Even in his absence, a definite tension hung thick through the air. Irina kept her eyes firmly rooted towards the linoleum floor.  
“Mu’dak,” She grumbled, under her breath, once she saw just how far the tube of cleaning powder had been kicked away.  
“Here, let me get that.” Mrs. Mott knelt down to place the Ajax back into its proper home, the petticoats beneath her bright red skirt rustling as she did. She leaned in, placing mere inches between the two. With a quick exhale, Irina looked up into Mrs. Mott’s terrifically blue eyes for the first time that evening.  
“Hello,” Was all she could think of to say. _Oh, yes, don’t you know how to turn a phrase._  
“Hello,” Mrs. Mott said back, with a smile that sent a surge of warmth through the young maid. It sent a similar one curling up her own lips, chapped and dry from another day of forgetting to coat them with balm.  
“I really was just finishing up.” Irina said quickly, grabbing hold of the supply bucket. “I’m sorry.”  
“You really needn’t keep apologizing, Irina. I understand.” Mrs. Mott insisted. “If anything, I shouldn’t have been creeping about like a church mouse and frighten you out of your wits.”  
“Oh, you - you didn’t - you didn’t frighten me that badly.” Irina said, “My mind, it was - it was somewhere else.” She found herself fascinated with the linoleum again, as she tried to push a thick wisp of curls behind her ear. It didn’t stay in its proper place, and almost as soon as the curls were tucked away, down they slid back across her cheek.  
“I see,” Mrs. Mott leaned against her palm, pulling herself back onto her feet. She smoothed out the fabric of her skirt, before offering her hand to Irina. Once the young woman was back on her feet, her mind became a blank slate once again.  
“How was the Freak Show?” She finally decided to inquire . “That’s - that’s where you and Dandy were tonight, yes?” _Good god, woman, what are you? Her mother?_  
“It was fine, thank you. Dandy seemed to enjoy himself.” The older woman looked away from Irina, here, her voice beginning to trail off, “He did, anyway, until I wouldn’t allow him to purchase one of the freaks.”  
“I’m sorry?”  
“Nothing. Nevermind.” She finished with a dismissive wave of the hand.  
“Did you enjoy yourself, Mrs. Mott?” Irina pressed. Mrs. Mott blinked several times at the question, giving the young woman a look of perplexity.  
“I - oh. Yes, of course.” She paused, as she seemed to mull the question over some. “Although, there was this woman who sang. At least, that’s what I think she was doing.”  
“Not the voice of an angel, I take it.” Irina said, dryly  
“Good lord, no. Her voice - it’s still ringing in my ears. And the song she sang! Something about the planets and outer space. I’ve never heard anything like it. It was almost as if - almost as if it was a different time. And not a very good time at that.” Irina couldn’t help but chuckle at the vivid image this description provided, at the sight of Mrs. Mott in an unusually acidic mood.  
“I’m rather sorry I missed it.” She said, making another failed attempt at pushing her curls out of her face. When it slid back again, she let out an annoyed little huff. _Blast this wretched unkempt hair._  
“Oh, dear, let me,” Mrs. Mott reached one hand in, and helped guide her stray hair back into its proper place. Fingers moving faintly against her cheek, so close that Irina received a rather definite view of the shape of her mouth, the shimmer of deep red lipstick against the chandelier light, that little dimple that only appeared with her smile. She caught hold of the floral scent of Mrs. Mott’s perfume. Rich, feminine, animalic, laced with the trace of cigarette smoke, all lingering against her senses. It had become so familiar to her in the last several months, had become a staple of those interruptions in her mundane afternoon thinking spells, that frequent presence in her dreams. The thought of that cool skin touching, really touching her own . . .  
A sudden shiver coursed through Irina, and she pulled herself away. Perhaps a little too quickly.  
“I - I should probably go and put these away.” She mumbled, almost pathetically holding up her supplies. She’d realized how sharply her words must have sounded almost as soon as she said them, and she added, hoping to take that edge off. “Unless there was anything else you needed.” There might have been a part of her that hoped that there was.  
“No. I don’t think there is. And it’s already so late, and I’ve already taken so much of your time.” Said Mrs. Mott. She removed her posh black gloves, and Irina realized those yellow rubber things were still on her own hands, which made her cheeks go hot and pink all over again.  
“Well, in that case. . . . I suppose I’ll be going, then. . . goodnight, Mrs. Mott.”  
She was out of the room before there was any chance of a response, willing herself away from one last glance.  
The night’s events wound up being incredibly counterproductive, in the end. Irina found herself lying flat on her back in her bed, in the darkness of her room, listening to the faint whistle her nose made when it exhaled, her heart racing as it did after any and all interactions with Mrs. Mott. The ones that simultaneously left her full of exhilaration and a bit of self loathing. How foolish she must seem to her employer. As articulate as a deaf and dumb mule. Or something of the like. Yet, she couldn’t stop the thoughts, the images, of delicate features, fire-golden curls that must feel like silk at the touch, crimson lipstick and thoughts of it becoming smeared in a trail along the young woman’s skin, before that dainty, breathy voice would whisper nothings in her ear. . . .  
She rolled over to her side with an exasperated bluster, eyes falling on her father’s proud face, encapsulated in flickering sephia, and framed in unadorned wood atop the nightstand.  
“Oh, Papa,” Was all she could think to say, her mournful whisper barely seeping through the cramped silence.


	2. Chapter Two

**II.**

_ September 10, 1952 _

The dining room table was entirely too long, Gloria concluded to herself, with firm finality. It had been in the family for generations, equipped to seat up to fourteen people, yet in Gloria’s fifty-four years of life, she had never once seen them all filled completely. With it only being her and Dandy now, its size seemed to be heightened, more attention drawn to its sterility - not helped by the room’s general absence of any variety in color - leaving one with even more of a sense of emptiness than when one started. That was, at least, the conclusion Gloria had seemed to come to as she sat at the table in question in silence, her attention veered in the direction of her desolate son, who seemed so far away, in every sense of the phrase.

He sat in the seat on the opposite end, looking at nothing, so it appeared, his brow more furrowed than usual. He had taken to scraping the nail of his thumb across the curve of his fork, each slide upward producing a short, shrill clink that made Gloria’s ears prickle, yet she couldn’t bring herself to say anything to dissuade it. His shoes tapped together under the table, like the little girl’s in  _ The Wizard of Oz _ , the sound clashing with the aforementioned clinks. Their eyes, matching in their shades of blue, met as Gloria was sliding her napkin from its place beneath her own, untouched silverware. Unable to help herself, she smiled, perhaps hoping that curl of her lips could lift her son’s spirits just a little. If he noticed her gesture, he didn’t show it, and his expression remained cold and sullen. All she could do in return was place the cloth napkin across her lap, busy herself with smoothing out its nonexistent creases, fold her hands together, and pretend that she didn’t feel that biting sting.

Her posture remained immaculate, as she reached for her glass, the one filled with water, and sipped. She had eyed its sister glass briefly, the one holding the white wine, but she opted to refrain from such measures, for the time being. Finally, when she could stand the terse silence and nasty scraping sounds no longer, she rang the little brass bell sitting by the corner of her plate, a signal for Irina to start bringing out the supper. 

It took almost no time at all, before the young maid appeared, slipping through the door leading from the kitchen with relative ease. She balanced in her arms a silver tray, and she circled the room, approaching Dandy’s side first. Wordlessly, she placed one of the plates before Dandy, who took only one look at its contents, before his nose wrinkled, and Gloria groaned internally, knowing what was to come.

“Snails?” He said, disappointment and disgust evident in his voice. “How boring.” Gloria felt her cheeks grow hot, a churning mix of anger and embarrassment, on behalf of the girl, cursing her son and his relentless criticizing. Irina, however, did not miss a beat, and she told him plainly, as she turned away,  

“That’s what you ordered. Escargot. Like you had in Paris.” Her attention was now directed towards Gloria, as she placed the second plate before her. Gloria was quick to thank the young woman, rather hoping her sincerity would make up some for the complete lack of gratitude from her son. She did make some attempt to discipline him, although she had never fully learned how to master the stern tone.

“Irina went to a lot of trouble, now, don’t you make a sour face.” One last apologetic smile in Irina’s direction, who merely acknowledged it with a swift glance, before averting her eyes and retreating without another word. Gloria returned to the evening’s stony silence. She turned her attention to her plate of escargot. Irina really had arranged the snails beautifully, their shining white shells circled perfectly around small garnishes of red and green, and contrasting with the blackness of the snails themselves. She was reluctant to even touch any of them with her fork, to ruin such delicate handiwork in a matter of seconds. 

Dandy, on the other hand, ignored his food altogether, opting instead to make a grab for his special bottle, the one made of fine crystal, with his name etched onto the lid. She knew,  _ she knew,  _ he really ought to have kicked the habit by now, but she didn’t dare try to dissuade him from it before he was ready. Not after the last time, after the last temper tantrum, that left every piece of her second best china broken, and his voice hoarse for nearly a week. 

When Dandy discovered his bottle to be empty, he slammed it down against the wood, and marched over to the bar, his eye on the cognac that was about five years his senior. He didn’t even bother putting on the nipple top after pouring, and simply paced to and fro as he drank.

“You can’t live on sweets and cognac, Dandy.” She chided, gently. “It’s bad for the temperament.”  _ To say nothing of what it would do to the stomach.  _ She thought. Her own was beginning to feel tight and queasy from a mere bystander position. Of course, it probably wasn’t all the obscene intake of cognac causing his distemper. He had been skulking around like this for the better part of a week. Dandy ignored her words, and continued drinking. 

“I mean,” Gloria continued, the silence already making her fidget again and desperate to fill it, “I’m still having nightmares about the debacle with the Cushing girl -” She didn’t so much as reach the end of her sentence before she realize she’d made a mistake. This conversation never failed to spark his ire. He slammed his glass back down on the table, and his eyes rolled up in petulant frustration. 

“I told you a million trillion times, I did not touch her!” He insisted, for what was most likely, as Dandy had put it, the millionth trillionth time. He began to pace across the table, agitated, with his brow furrowed in that way it did ever since he was a baby. “She was just jealous that I said she looked like that pregnant hippo that we saw on safari.” 

She smiled her tight lipped, restraining her humiliation smile. Sarah Cushing, poor, unfortunately homely Sarah Cushing, who had run from the house and into the garden that afternoon her family had visited, sobbing and red-faced, into her mother’s arms, screaming that Dandy had called her a hippo and hurt her bad. The fact the incident was sorted with little issue at all . . . 

“Damn lucky for both of us,” She said, “Police Chief Pringle was a high school beau of mine.”

And bless him, if he wasn’t as good-hearted as he’d been in high school. She remembered he had patted her hand sympathetically, almost with a look of pity in his eyes, after he had, albeit begrudgingly, cleared up the issue. He had looked well. Been married nearly thirty years, with two grown sons, one a lawyer, the other an auto-mechanic, and a beautiful baby granddaughter. Looking at those pictures he kept in his wallet, near his badge, she may have traded his pity for her tinge of jealousy, and that overwhelming wave of guilt that followed. Her little boy was a treasure, always, no matter what. Even at his absolute, and alarmingly more common, worst. 

“All those charming girls I’ve introduced you to,” She said, bringing herself back to the present. 

“They’re all smelly cows.” He replied with a scoff. All at once, she felt a throbbing pain in the side of her head. Never let it be said that she had no idea  _ why  _ none of those girls would take. 

“But, what about starting out your own life?” She asked, almost desperately. “Marriage, children . . .”

“Never!” He snapped, causing her to recoil back a little. “Babies are more boring, than anything.”

“Dandy . . . ” She began, but he cut off her words, with his own dramatic declaration. 

“I want to be a thespian. But you keep ruining it!” He was on the verge of tears now.   

_ Oh, for  _ fuck’s  _ sake _ . The thought came into her mind before she could stop it, that  painful throbbing became more and more prominent. Her Dandy as a thespian. Working from the crack of dawn to dusk, with the most excruciating physical and mental challenges imaginable, for little more than peanuts. She loved Dandy more than nearly anything else in this world, but the thought was beyond laughable. Of course, she couldn’t actually say that,  not to her sweet, fragile boy. She’d have to let him down gently, with pragmatism and reason.  

“It’s not our world, Dandy. You come from a line of such fine people.” Well, perhaps there were a few hiccups in that pedigree. “I am simply trying to protect you from a life of degradation and approprium.”

Of course, this didn’t sate her son one iota, and he was on the verge of tears. Despite her exasperation, the sight still managed to break her heart, just a tiny bit. 

“I am turning to  _ dust _ , from boredom.” He said, voice low, with desperation hanging off his every syllable. With one last swig from his bottle, he slammed the thing on the table, and turned away, towards the door.

“Where are you going?” She demanded, or at the very least, the closest to demanding she was capable of being. 

“I don’t know,” He snapped, turning back only briefly. “Maybe Saint Petersburg, where they have  _ real  _ caramel corn. Not that  _ cardboard  _ they sell at the freakshow.” With that last crack in his voice, he was out of the room, leaving Gloria to spring to her feet, and chase after him.

“Dandy, please . . . stay with Mother,” She racked her brain for anything that could suade him away from leaving. “We can play June Allyson paper dolls, or whatever you’d like.” The anxiety began to creep through, when she could no longer see him, but could hear his footsteps stomping towards the front door. “Something ghastly always happens when you run off in a mood.” She was met only with the sound of slamming, the vibrations travelling all the way back to where she was standing, ingraining in her bones with a final shutter.  

**********

By nearly quarter to ten, Gloria still had made no attempt to sleep. She hadn’t even bothered to change out of her day clothes, pacing about her room in her pale blue dress. Her nerves were like strings on a violin, tightly wound, perhaps even buzzing. The throbbing pain in her head had not gone away, and a dizziness was beginning to creep in. He had taken one of the cars, and could have been anywhere, by this point in time. It was too dark to go searching for him now, especially not after those people were disappearing all over town, falling prey to a still faceless bogeyman. She stopped in her tracks, with a small shiver.  _ Oh _ . Her stomach churned. Best, maybe, not to think about  _ that.  _ The idea was just too horrible. 

Gloria leaned her hands against the bedpost, and sighed. She needed to calm her frazzled nerves. A cup of tea, maybe. Yes, she decided, that was the wisest course of action. Slowly, deliberately, she straightened, and moved with only somewhat shaking steps. The house was so eery at this hour, the darkness and silence loomed almost uncomfortably through the air. She crept down the stairs, heels clicking a little as possible against the floor. When she reached the kitchen door, she paused. It was cracked open, not wide, but enough to see that the light was on inside. Oh, damn. It had completely slipped her mind, that Irina might still be up. Of course, the help always took their dinner after everything else had been cleared away, putting it at an hour such as this. For several minutes, all she could do was stand there, frozen, staring at the door as though it might bite.

She wasn’t entirely so sure why the young woman made her so nervous. Gloria was the one who employed her, after all, she really oughtn’t  feel so skittish around someone for whom she signed their paycheck. In her own wretched home, no less. It wasn’t as though Irina gave her any just cause for such wariness either, not really, quiet and decidedly aloof though she seemed to be. She was a hard, efficient worker, and that was all that should have mattered, shouldn’t it? Not the young woman’s seeming dislike for her, evident from her demeanor anytime she was in her employer’s vicinity.

She was greeted by a delicious smelling warmth that encircled the room. Irina was hovered over the stove, her attention consumed by the simmering contents of a small pot. One hand gripped a wooden spoon, stirring delicately, while the other held a cigarette against her lips. Dean Martin’s baritone voice crooned from the pocket radio sitting on the counter. Gloria couldn’t help but notice the young woman’s hips swaying slightly in time to the melody. When she didn’t appear to notice Gloria’s presence straight away, the older woman cleared her throat. Irina turned, and straightened, with wide eyes. 

“Oh, Mrs. Mott.” She said, releasing her grip on the spoon and frantically putting out the cigarette. “Is everything alright? I - I mean . . . I mean, besides the obvious . . .” Her voice trailed off, and her hands fiddled together. 

“Well, I - no.” Gloria admitted, “I was trying to sleep and I just can’t. I was hoping maybe a cup of tea would help. And, perhaps some aspirin. I’ve the most awful headache.” Her stomach rumbled, and was followed with a wave of nausea that made her cringe. “And a stomachache, I suppose, too.” That had to be doing wonders for her blasted ulcer, she thought, grimly. “Frankly, dear, everything feels rather miserable at the moment.” Irina said nothing, merely studied Gloria with those eyes of icy gray, her demeanor suddenly changing.

“Mrs. Mott, if you don’t mind my asking,” She finally began, “Have you eaten?” Her expression remained unmoved, but her tone was soft, filled with a concern that warmed Gloria’s heart considerably.

“Not since breakfast, no,” She said, finally, lowering her head with the feeling of a guilty child. It was rather childishly stupid to have gone so long without a proper meal. 

“That’s what I thought.” Irina lifted her cigarette to her lips, taking a quick drag and exhaling a perfect cloud. “I think we saved what was left over from supper. Mrs. Bailey’s left for the night, but I think I could manage.”

“Oh, no, that’s perfectly all right, Irina you don’t have to . . .” The honest truth was, the thought of cold, or reheated French food sounded about as far from appealing as something could be. Dandy had picked out the menu for that evening. Personally, Gloria had never cared much for the taste of escargot. Yet, the pain and emptiness in her stomach became more prominent with each passing minute. Seeming to read her mind, Irina added,

“Or, I could scrape together a few sandwiches,”

“What’s that you’re making there?” Gloria asked, pointing to the still simmering pot. Irina gave a noncommittal shrug, glancing at her handiwork.

“Just chicken and rice.” She said, “Nothing special.” There was something of a pregnant pause, as Gloria looked to the ground, cheeks warm and tinged with pink. Irina, once again the room’s clairvoyant, studied her and asked, slowly, 

“Would you like a plate?” 

“Yes, please.” At this, Gloria didn’t hesitate. She couldn’t. Not with her hunger practically clawing at her insides, and the bubbling, enticing aroma of food that was right there, and hot and ready. 

“Well, have a seat over there, then.” Irina instructed, waving the hand with the cigarette laced in between her fingers, towards the cramped table, placed right in the center of the room. Gloria obeyed, retreating to what she knew was once a table for small, intimate poker games, the wood since faded and somewhat chipped. The chair creaked a little as she sat down. She folded her hands in her lap, watching Irina work, unsure really of what else to do. The younger woman put out her cigarette, before turning the radio down, reducing Dean Martin to little more than a faint hum. Somehow, it created a far more palpable, and unsettling silence between them. She could see Irina’s eyes flicker back and forth between her actions, and where Gloria was sitting. It wasn’t fair, to leave the conversation hanging, not when she was clearly putting the maid out so. It was nearly maddening, and Gloria spoke out the first question that came to mind.

“Irina, you were originally from Saint Petersburg, weren’t you?”

“What?” The maid asked, as she filled up the second plate. She moved behind Gloria suddenly, and soon the faucet could be heard running. 

“Before you came here, to Jupiter . . . didn’t you live on the other side of the state, in Saint Petersburg?”

“Oh, ah - yes, I did.” Irina replied, and the faucet turned off with a squeak. “It’s where I was born, and I grew up there, too.” She didn’t appear to care that it was an obvious question, one that had clearly been answered on her application when she had first interviewed for the position vacated by Dora, her predecessor. “Have you ever been, Mrs. Mott?”

“Yes. Once,” Said Gloria, as Irina returned into her line of vision. “Just before the war. Dandy was still just a boy.” She smiled, a little wistfully. “He loved it so. It took every bit of coaxing I had to stop him from eating nothing but caramel corn the entire visit.” She laughed a little at the memory. 

“Oh, goodness. I haven’t had caramel corn since . . . since I was very small.” Irina admitted, the faintest of smiles tracing her lips. “I never much cared for it myself. The caramel kept sticking to my teeth.” 

She placed in front of Gloria a full, steaming plate of chicken and rice, a set of silverware, and a glass of water for good measure. It was followed with gentle instruction, “Be careful, it’s still very hot.” Like she were speaking to a child, and that somehow touched Gloria more than the meal itself.

“Thank you,” She said with full sincerity that she still believed wasn’t enough. Irina said nothing, as she took her own seat, with her own plate. Her feet nearly bumped into Gloria’s as she sat, and the older woman felt herself shudder at the brief contact. There was more that she felt obligated to say, with a want to keep the conversation going, but her stomach concaved.

They ate together in mostly silence for some time. Forks clattered against plates, and there was the occasional thump of drinking glass against wood. Slowly, her stomach began to fill, the hot meal bringing warmth into her bones, sating that gnawing pit in her stomach, allowing her to feel more like herself once again. 

“This is excellent,” She said, sincerely, after several bites. “Wherever did you learn to make it?” 

“Family recipe,” Was Irina’s only reply, said fidgeting and unsmiling.

After that, as she ate, Gloria stole several glances, as many as she could get away with, up towards the young woman across from her. Irina wasn’t that much older than her Dandy; twenty-six or twenty-seven, at most.  She was as fair as Dandy was dark, with hair that resembled yellow candy floss, and eyes the color of storm clouds. She had brows that gave her a look of perpetual scrutiny, as though she were studying every person that came under her gaze. Not that Gloria was very often subject to such a gaze. Usually, Irina’s eyes would avert hers whenever they came into contact. It had been that way since Irina’s first week working for the Motts, all the way back in July in the wake of Dora’s sudden resignation; never especially keen to converse outside of a professional capacity. Their longest interaction had been the week prior, and it was apparent that the young woman couldn’t leave fast enough. Even now, as she ate, she kept her focus firmly on the tabletop. Her brows were furrowed, and she tapped her fingers against the wood in a somewhat agitated manner.  Gloria did at least try to not take it personally, although she was less than successful.

“Mrs. Mott, may I ask you something?” She asked, suddenly. Gloria visibly started.

“Wha - ? O-oh, of course.” Irina set down her fork and wiped at her mouth primly with her cloth napkin. 

“Mrs. Mott, are you absolutely sure that we shouldn’t call the police? With Dandy missing, and all that, I mean.” Admittedly, it took Gloria a good few seconds to register the question. Dandy’s latest excursion had escaped her mind in that short span of time. Of course, there was her confusion at why the maid would ask such a thing, and why she was looking to Gloria with such concern.

“Oh, goodness, of course. You’re still new,” She said, once it finally dawned on her. “No, I don’t think that will be necessary. This isn’t the first time Dandy has done this, you see. Granted, the last time was quite a while ago but, I know he always comes back. He can’t ever stay gone for long.”

“Can’t, or won’t?” The young woman returned, with a surprising amount of dryness, that Gloria smiled a little in spite of herself. The young woman’s face went bright red and her eyes went back towards the table. “I’m sorry, that was unkind.”

“It’s quite alright, dear. You’re not wrong.” Gloria took a sip of her water, more out of a desire to make use of her hands than anything else. “Dandy has never been what you would call self-reliant. I suppose that’s more my fault than anything. The way people like us are raised . . . but Dandy - he’s always wanted his own sort of independence. Desperately. Perhaps that’s what makes him so - so volatile. That is natural though, isn’t it? For a child to want to leave his nest?” She didn’t wait for a response. “He’s so restless, so bored most of the time. That’s why he leaves like this. It’s never more than once - or twice - a month, and never, ever longer than a day.”

“I know I shouldn’t worry. I shouldn’t. It’s silly. Dandy isn’t a child anymore, not really. But he’s my little boy. He’s all I have. He’s always been my responsibility, everything about him. Even -” She stopped herself short just then, the heat rushing to her face and leaving her lightheaded. “I-I’m sorry, Irina. I don’t know what I’m rambling on about.” There could be no other way to describe the following silence as anything but deafening. Could there be anything more humiliating than this; feeling the stare of the new maid after having revealed far too much about herself than could ever be considered dignified or appropriate. She had half a mind to leave the room right then and there, while she still carried at least some of her dignity. 

Yet, before she had the chance, Irina reached into the pocket of her plain cotton dress, and retrieved from it a lighter and an already opened package of Lucky Strikes. 

“Here,” She said, quietly, as she handed Gloria a fresh cigarette. She took one for herself before lighting the pair. It was several drags later before she finally spoke,

“You know, I remember once - I was maybe twelve or so - after our mother had died,” She said the last part so carelessly, in passing, as though it were a mere footnote,“My little brother and I were fighting. He didn’t care much for the rules I was laying out for him while Papa was out working, and he announced one afternoon that he’d had enough and was going to run away from home and wasn’t ever coming back.”

“Goodness. How old was he?” 

“Nearly eight.” Irina said, with another drag, exhaling a perfect cloud of smoke “He wrapped his pajamas and his little dimestore soldiers and his life savings - which I don’t think could have been more than a few dollars - into an old blanket, and marched right out the front door. I nearly made myself sick with worry - mostly because I was certain Papa would have me horsewhipped - and I didn’t know if I should go out and look for him myself or go to the police or simply wait and see if he would come back or not. You have to remember that I was twelve and perhaps not the most level thinker then.” She leaned back in her chair, sighing and exhaling another cloud of smoke. “In the end, I decided to wait and carry on as normal. Something told me that Andrei wouldn’t be able to get very far in a big city like ours. So my sister and I just finished the chores and prepared the supper, and hoped upon hope that Andrei would return home before Papa did. And wouldn’t you know it,” She began to laugh, “Andrei came stumbling through the door again just before five with the most awful bellyache. It turns out that he went and spent all his money on candy and chocolate soda, and had it all before the hour was even out.” At this point, the young maid’s laugh was too infectious to not laugh along with, and Gloria found herself laughing too.

“What did your father say, when he came home?” 

“Nothing, actually. I saved Andrei’s life by sending him straight to bed and telling Papa he had caught a stomach bug that had been going around. All Andrei got was a night sick on the toilet, which was more than enough of a punishment for him. We never spoke of it again.” She looked to Gloria with perhaps the kindest expression she had possessed all evening, and she suddenly seemed different somehow. Older. To shoulder such responsibility even so young. Such must have become practically second nature to her. 

“Hey, now,” Irina said, composing herself just then, as though she were transported back into the present. She put out her cigarette and stood to her feet. “You’d better finish up, before your supper gets cold.”

“Oh. Yes, of course.” Gloria laughed, although not nearly as nervously as before. Irina scooped up her own dishes almost effortlessly, carrying them to the sink. 

“I can bring you seconds, if you’d like.” 

“No, that’s alright. This will do.”

The conversation shifted, no longer focused on worries or the past, but was far more mundane, allowed to be about nothing at all when it came right down to it. It was as though a layer of ice was melted from the room, a weight lifted. Gloria hadn’t spoken this way with anyone in . . . she couldn’t even remember how long. For once, the feeling of crippling loneliness was replaced with something completely different. Something she wasn’t sure she knew quite how to describe. Perhaps that was just the nicotine. 

When she knew it was finally time to take her leave, plate cleared and cigarette properly smoked, it wasn’t without reluctance. She stood, smoothing out her skirt and pushing her chair in slowly, as though she were buying herself time. 

“Irina, I can’t possibly thank you enough.” She said, inadvertently causing the younger woman’s cheeks to go bright pink. 

“You’re welcome. Although it was no trouble at all, really. I - I enjoy talking with you, Mrs. Mott.” Now it was Gloria’s turn to blush. “And are you absolutely sure we don’t need to do anything about your s- about Dandy?”

“Oh, right. Dandy.” Gloria sighed, as she remembered just why it was she was a awake at near midnight and in the kitchen at all, “Yes, I’m sure. He’ll most likely slip back into the house sometime before breakfast, and if he doesn’t . . . I’ll drive around. He never goes far.”

“I can help you. I-if you like. I know it’s my afternoon off, but I can always switch it with another day.” How tempting it was, she suddenly realized, to say yes, how lovely the company would have been. 

“You really are a dear, but I can’t ask you to do that. I can guarantee he’ll be back one way or another, and everything will be just fine.” 

Irina nodded, her expression as sceptical as Gloria may or may not have felt on the inside, but she let the matter drop.

“I should be getting to bed.” Gloria finally said, quietly. “I’ve taken enough of your time. Although, if you would ever like to do this again . . .”

“Do what? Have dinner?”

“Yes. No. Well - oh for heaven's sake, what am I trying to say?” A deep breath as she collected her thoughts. “If you would like to talk, you know, to be friends, I’d like that. Very much.” At this, Irina smiled, looking so sincerely happy, something that Gloria couldn’t help but find so lovely. 

“I’d that very much too, Mrs. Mott.”

Perhaps it was silly, but that was enough to ease her thoughts and worries into the rest of the night, to spend at least a few hours sleeping as opposed to fretting. To realize that for the first time in ages, she was no longer completely alone. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter Three

**III.**

_ September 11, 1952 _

Dandy’s car was still absent from the driveway, when Irina left the house early that morning. She’d driven off just after breakfast, riding along the gravelly roads. She didn’t much feel like turning on the radio that particular trip, opting instead to be left with only the sounds of the motor running and the private thoughts dancing about her head. She was on a particularly tight schedule that day, having agreed to meet up with Tom and Julia that afternoon in town, and she knew that any and all tasks she wanted to accomplish would have to happen prior. 

The drive to the Catholic church took nearly an hour all on its own. She found St. Patrick’s to be nearly empty, no others in the chapel outside of herself and the one or two homeless gentlemen sleeping in the back pews; not unusual for a Thursday. It was a brief trip, fifteen cents in the collections tin, and the kneeling before the vigil to methodically light three candles, one for her father, one for her mother, and one for Alexei. Then came the bowing of her head, murmuring a prayer, customary for the dead, in the proper Russian. She kept her voice quiet, on the off chance another patron or a member of the parish were to walk by and overhear. As always, she hoped her father would overlook the Catholic house of worship, wherever he may be, as the sentiment was all the same.

The remaining late morning hours were spent at the lunch counter at Woolworth’s, creating a bubble of solitude for herself before her friends arrived. One hand kept a dowdy book from the library propped open against the table, while the other grasped the handle of a cup of coffee, which she sipped from every now and again. There was a lunch being prepared for her by the boys behind the counter, and altogether, life was just  _ good.  _ Ideal, even. She wasn’t going to pretend that the thoughts of the night before, thoughts that made her grin stupidly, like a giddy schoolgirl, didn’t help her already elated mood. 

Her attention had begun to some, gaze wandering about the room and towards the door, as she continued to wait for her companions - they were nearly fifteen minutes late now - before she settled in surprise on the girl in the seat next to her. She had ordered a coffee, and was currently spinning her little yellow hat between her fingers. She hadn’t paid much attention when the girl had come in earlier, but upon this second glance, the recognition was almost instantaneous. 

“Penny? Is that you?” Penny Mason visibly started, before she turned her head in Irina’s direction.

“Oh. Irina. Hi.” It was no surprise to Irina that she sounded less than enthused. In the half year she had spent living in Jupiter, she’d spent enough time around Penny to know that such standoffishness was to be expected. Her family did come from money - nothing compared to that of the Motts, of course - but enough to give her plenty of airs and graces, and the distinct impression of superiority. She was a candy striper at the local hospital, and more a friend of Julia’s than a friend of Irina’s, usually only interacting with the latter in larger social gatherings. If it weren’t for her need to rebel in whatever subtle ways she could get away with, she would probably have no real reason to associate with Irina at all. What better way to go against one’s elitist, wholly patriotic parents than by speaking to the Russian girl, with her potential communist ways? Still, she was never one to give the cold shoulder, her Mama and Papa had certainly taught her better than that.. “What are you doing here?”

“Meeting Tom and Julia for lunch. You know, we haven’t seen much of you the last few weeks,” Irina remarked, even managing an amused smile. “Julia was getting worried.” 

“Was she?” Penny’s hand grasped tightly at the hat now, denting the rounded dome. Her voice had a hushed, sharpened quality to it. Preoccupied, almost. Irina was able to get a closer look into Penny’s eyes, and could see that it had been some time since Penny had had a decent night’s sleep. There were faint traces of dark circles beneath those eyes, which seemed somewhere far, far away. Unnerved. Haunted, almost. Irina frowned. 

“Hey now, is everything alright? Did something happen?” 

Penny didn’t respond, merely turning away with a scowl. Irina pursed her lips, but she didn’t feel it right to press it any further.

“Alright, then. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” She went back to her book as the boy behind the counter set her ham sandwich before her.

“What’s that you’re reading there?” Came Penny’s voice, now much softer in tone. 

“ _ War of the Worlds _ .” Irina even held the copy out for visual clarification. “I’m slowly making my way through the works of H.G. Wells. Well, I also had a book on Egyptology I was reading but I somehow managed to lose it like a damned fool . . .” She stopped herself in the midst of her diatribe. No need to say more than needed

“Say, isn’t that the one that about scared everyone in New Jersey out of their wits way back when? They tried making it into a radio program with Orson Welles.”

“The very same. But what else can you expect from a book about a martian invasion?” Irina actually remembered when the story made headlines in the St. Petersburg Times, shortly after Halloween. She had to have been around thirteen, because Alexei and her mother were dead by then. Her Papa had read the story aloud to her and Nata from his dusty old armchair in the corner of the living room, chuckling the gravelly way he did at the back of his throat. He’d made Nata fetch him the pair of scissors tucked away in a drawer in the other room, and the roll of adhesive tape, so he could place it in his big book of clippings. “It’s good to keep this history,  _ solnyshko.”  _ He had said. “To keep these records for future generations.” She actually had that book now, tucked away in a crate of her father’s things under her bed. 

“Look. I’m sorry.” Penny said, finally setting her hat down on the counter, repositioning herself in her chair so that she could better face her luncheon companion. “For being so short with you. Something - something did happen. While I was away.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” An uncomfortable pause. “Would you like to talk about it? I don’t know how much help I’d be, but I’m pretty good at listening.”

“No. You’re sweet, but,” She hesitated, “I don’t think I can talk about it with anybody just now. . . . I’m not being cryptic on purpose or anything. It’s just the truth.” 

“I believe you.” Irina replied, one hand unconsciously gravitating towards the other young woman. How well she understood. What it meant to not intend to create mysteries about you, but to do so anyway. Although she could sense, from the daze in the other woman’s eyes, that the circumstances were nowhere near the same. 

“I was just so foolish.” Penny said, not seeming to be speaking to Irina in particular. “Blinded by adventure and dazzling lights.” 

Irina was left completely unsure of what to say, if she should let the young woman alone in her reflection of regret or not. She wasn’t given much time to decide which, when  she heard that little tinkling bell, this time carrying with it, the elated faces of Tom Winston and Julia Brennan. So far the closest friends that she had managed to make in her half year in Jupiter. 

“Well, well, well, would you look at what the cat dragged in.” Came Tom’s surprisingly booming voice. “How the hell are you two?”

Irina and Penny both stood up out of their chairs and the customary pleasantries were exchanged twice over. 

“We’re sorry we’re so late.” Julia said, after kissing Irina’s cheeks, “This one had impromptu meetings all this morning.”

“And we can’t stay long either,” Tom finished for her as he moved towards one of the empty seats. “Middle management meetings all afternoon. Not that we’d expect you to know much about that line of business, eh?” He laughed, nudging Irina in the side, not noticing her grimace. Tom remained convinced, after all this time, that Irina, being a maid, could never understand the complexities of working at a nine-to-five job like his, for an advertising agency just outside of Jupiter, despite the fact that she worked in a job that often required her to be awake before dawn at the earliest, and that she was currently taking the only half day off she received all week. 

“Tom,” Julia chastised, gently, before turning to her right. “We didn’t realize you were going to be here too, Pen. I feel like it’s been too long.”

“I know. And I’m afraid I have to get going.” Penny hopped up out of her seat, reaching into her pocket book for a quarter to place on the counter, and putting on her little yellow hat. “Daddy’ll be furious if I’m not back before his lunchbre-I mean, I - I promised him I’d be home soon.” 

“Oh, shame.” And Julia did indeed look genuinely bereaved. “We do have to get together soon though, do you promise?”

“Of course. I’ll call you. Oh, and Irina? Would it be alright if I called you soon too? You know, about that thing we were talking about earlier?” Irina blinked in surprise.

“What? Oh. You can, if you’d like. The Mott’s should be listed in the directory.”

“Okay, great.” She offered up her first smile that afternoon. “I’ll see you around, then.”

She slipped out of the door, only the three remaining. Tom ordered coffee and chicken salad for himself, and Julia asked for the same. Irina sipped from her own cup, and picked a little at her sandwich, before she turned in her chair towards Julia, whose brown eyes were already beginning to have that familiar mischievous spark, one that certainly indicated a scheme cooking that had yet to reveal herself.

“Alright, then, Missy. Explain yourself.”

“Whatever are you getting at, Rina?” Julia asked, the epitome of innocence. Irina smiled a tight lipped smile. Julia had been calling her by that particular nickname for a while now, the past several months at least, and Irina had never bothered to mention how she disliked it. 

“You asked to meet with me today, so therefore, it makes sense to believe that it’s because you want something.”

“Irina Petrov, I am shocked and appalled by your insinuations,” said Julia, although even as she did so, she suppressed a laugh, “Maybe all I wanted to do was have lunch with my friend. Did you ever consider that?”

Irina raised an eyebrow and said nothing, unmoved. 

“Oh, just tell her, Jules.” Tom said, with relish. He looked like a kid ready to open all his gifts Christmas morning. Julia relented, with a sigh.

“Alright, fine. There’s something. One tiny, itty bitty thing.” She placed her perfectly manicured fingers against the other woman’s shoulder. “Irina, darling. My love. My light. I have a favor to ask of you.” Both women were suppressing giggles by this point, ignoring the look of bemusement on Tom’s face. 

“Alright, then. What is it?”

“Well. We’ve told you about Tom’s cousin before, haven’t we? Warren. The one who’s been living down in Miami?”

“No, I don’t believe you have.” Irina replied, staring blankly.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, I’m sure we have. Warren Vial? He’s the one whose father owns that fish transporting business? He was part of one of the first Model United Nations Clubs when he and Tom were in high school.” Irina thought a moment, and the recollection soon came to her.

“O-oh! Oh, is this . . . is this the one who nearly drove his car into the marshes last Christmas?”

“Oh, for goodness sake, that was an  _ accident _ , Julia, and you know it.” Said Tom, mollified. “He thought he was perfectly fit to drive without his glasses.” Irina laughed, briefly, before composing herself.

“Yes. I think I remember now. So what of Mr. Magoo, the race car driver from Miami?” Julia pushed back her dark curls, pristinely kept, back off her shoulders and adjusted her cardigan. She always wore those pastel cardigans, even in the deadliest Floridian heat, never seeming to break a sweat. Irina caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the napkin holder, and grimaced at the sight; her uncooperative mop of yellow hair, her long brimmed nose, her knobbly frame.  

“Well, you see, he’s actually relocating here to Jupiter. Studying at one of the universities outside of town. And, erm - he’s going to be officially arriving next week, and Tom and I were going to take him out for dinner and, well . . . it would be wonderful if he had someone to, you know, accompany him. Going in doubles, you know.”

“And you were thinking I could be that person.” Irina finished, with pursed lips and a narrowed brow. 

“Well you could look a little less like you’re sucking down a lemon.” Tom remarked, between bites of chicken.

“Oh, come on now, Rina, it would be fun!” Julia’s voice did bubble with sincerity, though Irina maintained her reproach. “You would like Warren, I’m sure of it. He likes to read, and he can be very funny . . . and he’s a capable driver when he can see properly.” Nervous laughter before her tone became more serious. “Besides, I worry about you. All alone in that house up on the hill day in and day out.”

“I’m not alone though. There’s Mrs. Bailey. There’s - Dandy. There’s . . .” Irina trailed off, finding herself fiddling with a loose thread on the collar of her blouse. “Besides, you’re the one who helped me get that job in the first place.” 

“I know, but . . . I mean, how much longer should you have to work in a job like that, really. How old are you now? Twenty-five? Twenty-six?”

“Twenty-eight in January.” This news seemed to afront Julia.

“My god, Irina . . .”

“You know, Julia, you’ve really got to stop thinking of me as one of the hundred neediest cases. Who’s to say it’s such a terrible thing if I’m not married off? Perhaps I want to remain a lifelong spinster.” A possible inevitability she had actually come to accept for herself. “When I’m older and have enough money saved away, I could buy a cottage in a secluded little town all by my lonesome and solve murders. Like Miss Jane Marple.”

“Oh, but that would be such a dreary existence, though.” Julia said, the reference to Agatha Christie seeming to fly its way straight over her head. Her expression changed again, becoming softer, almost pitying. “Look, I know these sort of things are normally for you, and it isn’t as though I’m expecting you to marry Warren or anything like that. But he really is so nice, Irina, and I do think you would like him. Pretty please, just this one dinner? For me?”  

Irina faltered. There was no possible way she could refuse Julia. She wouldn’t have her job or the security that came with it, if it weren’t for Julia. She would still be living in a hot, muggy room in that boarding house out by the swamps if it weren’t for Julia; working at meager jobs that were surely not going to last, because a colleague would complain about working alongside a Russian, or an employer’s own discomfort  would finally get the better of them. If Julia weren’t employed as a secretary in an employment agency, if she hadn’t told Irina about the wealthy Mott family whose maid had suddenly quit, and who were in need of an immediate replacement, for all of that, Irina would be forever in her debt. Not to mention, that it was Julia who was willing to befriend her back in March, when Irina first moved to Jupiter, in fresh mourning over her father’s death, and already beginning to face the cold, harsh effects of Joseph McCarthy’s nationwide tirade. They bonded over the similarities in their backgrounds and breedings, both the children of immigrant parents - Julia’s parents even came to the United States from Dublin in 1920, the same time as Irina’s parents’ arrival from St. Petersburg - and both the eldest of their brother’s and sisters, although even factoring in Alexei, he and Nata and Andrei could never compare, admittedly, to Julia’s family of eight. She had grown fond of Julia’s company, finding it almost a familiar comfort, and she respected the evident work ethic and self assurance that Julia possessed. 

She could forgive the fact that they talked of little else outside of gossip out of  _ Who’s Who  _ and the latest release at the picture show - word of mouth said that  _ Singin in the Rain  _ was supposed to be excellent - or multiple retellings of the same harmless anecdotes, where the wording was only slightly different every time, or the fact that Julia seemed to believe that everyone in her life would share the same aspirations and desires that she did. She’d been with her sweetheart Tom ever since high school, a choice Irina had still yet to fathom completely, and an engagement and marriage were sure to follow in not too long. After all, everyone should want their own Tom, shouldn’t they? Just about everyone these days seemed to think so, and Irina knew she perhaps should have to as well. Better that the constant pining, an attraction deemed so unnatural. 

“What evening did you have in mind?” She finally said, to which Julia practically squealed in delight and threw her arms around Irina’s shoulders.

“Ooh, thank you, thank you, thank you! Week from today, most like. Seven o’clock.”

“I’ll have to talk to Mrs. Mott about switching out my half-day from morning to evening.”   

Not that this condition made much of a difference, though. Her response was as good as a yes in the eyes of Tom and Julia, and she knew that it was not going to be difficult to persuade Mrs. Mott. 

They paid for their meals, Tom placing a few bills on the countertop on behalf of himself and Julia, and Irina tucked away  _ War of the Worlds,  _ and reached into her pocketbook for thirty-five cents. 

“I may get a package of cigarettes and some mints while I’m here. Care for anything?” She had actually directed the question towards Julia, but it was Tom who replied,

“That isn’t necessary, Rina, don’t worry. I just led the advertising campaign for Philip Morris so there’s several free boxes back home.” She couldn’t help but find his usually self-important  tone to be in exceptional form, and he looked to her seeming to expect a reaction. She nodded politely, clutching the fresh package in her hand a little tighter, the cellophane crinkling against her fingers. 

~*~*~*~*~

She returned to the Mott house at just shy of one in the afternoon, a good several hours before she was expected back. She let herself in through the back way, that led into the kitchen. Mrs. Bailey was present to greet her, hovered over the kitchen sink, skinning the silvery scales off a generously sized fish. It seemed to stare her down with its dead, wet eye.   

“The Mrs. was asking after you a while ago.” Mrs. Bailey told her, an afterthought as the young woman was putting her things away. “Said to tell you to come find her as soon as you got back.”

“Fine, fine. She just upstairs, then?”

“Should be. I’d hurry were I you. She seemed pretty agitated about something or other. That rotten boy of hers, most like.”

Irina withdrew to the foyer, where she found the atmosphere to be abnormally quiet. She called out as she walked,

“Mrs. Mott?” There was no verbal response, only a clattering from somewhere in the house. She moved further, her shoes echoing against the linoleum. She called out again,

“Mrs. Mott? It’s Irina, you needed to see me?” There came that nervous fluttering anticipation in her stomach again, as though she were about to meet the Queen Mother.  _ Idiotka. Idiot girl.  _ Mrs. Mott appeared then, out of the dining room, clutching between her fingers, a handfuls worth of knives and forks and a couple of the crystal goblets.

“Oh, Irina, there you are.” She said, a little breathlessly. “Would you mind terribly helping me get these up to my bedroom? It’s the last of the set, I think.”

“Of course,” Irina approached quickly, and the silverware interchanged hands. “Do these need cleaned again? Because my supplies are just in the storage cupboard in the kitchen.” 

“No, no, just take them upstairs. And quickly, quickly. I don’t want that . . . thing to see us.” She scanned the room quickly then, lips pursed, and eyes flickering with worry, before moving towards the staircase, at a quicker speed than would be deemed normal. Irina didn’t have time to ask questions, instead following on the heels of her employer. 

She hesitated at Mrs. Mott’s door, then, as she was want to do nearly every time she approached it. It was obvious she was to go in there every morning and evening as part of her job, but she couldn’t help but feel herself an intruder. Like she shouldn’t belong in there, what with the thoughts that she had. Best leave those out of conversation next week while at dinner with Warren the newly arriving cousin.  

“Come in, dear, come in, hurry. And close the door behind you, please.” Irina did so, keeping herself turned away from the golden handle, eyes on the bed, which she noticed had a small mountain of shining objects piled atop it. 

“Er. Mrs. Mott? Not to be presumptuous, but why are you hiding all of your silver and fine glasses in your bedroom? It looks like a royal birds nest - if you don’t mind my saying so.” She added, hastily, looking down. 

“Dandy. He’s brought back a - a friend, of sorts. They’re in his playroom now.” 

“Yes, I saw that his car was in the driveway when I got back. What do you mean friend, what friend?” Mrs. Mott looked completely morose, her porcelain feature crinkling in disdain. 

“Oh, goodness, I feel ridiculous just saying it. A clown.” Irina blinked in disbelief. She couldn’t have heard that right.

“A clown? The silly people who cake their faces in rouge and perform for children.”

“I’d be worried for any children this clown went near. There’s just something . . . not quite right. I don’t know. He never spoke to me, or to Dandy, just stared at us both, with these cold, dead eyes.” She faltered. “Dandy was so pleased, having found a new companion, I couldn’t refuse him. But. . .”

“But you still don’t feel as though the valuables can be unguarded while he’s here.” Irina finished, in understanding. 

“Yes. Exactly right. I was afraid it would sound too neurotic.”

“Not at all.” Irina replied, as she gingerly rested the flatware against the satin comforter.  _ The literal ivory tower _ , she observed, with the hint of a smirk. 

“Well, enough of my family and our affairs,” Mrs. Mott said with finality, as she sat on the end of the bed, looking to Irina, with a kind expression, “How was your morning off?”

“Oh, fine.” Irina gave a noncommittal shrug. “Very routine. I saw a few friends. We had lunch.” It was all she felt like saying. At least for the time being. She began to fiddle with her hands, using one fingernail to dig under her thumb. “I trust that you’re feeling better after last night?”

“Oh yes, very. And thank you again, for putting up with me as you did. It truly was very helpful.”

“It really was no trouble, Mrs. Mott. I l was glad for the company.”

“You’re sweet.” 

A moment passed, Irina standing awkwardly, unsure if she should sit beside the older woman, if that would even be appropriate. She eventually decided against, composing herself, and moving her stray blonde curls behind her ears. 

“I should . . . probably get going. Plenty of tasks to do after a morning off, you know.”

“Oh, yes, of course. I shouldn’t keep you.” Mrs. Mott said, quietly. 

Irina kept her eyes on the older woman for a moment, then, unable to bring herself to look away. She did look so lovely, in her dress of green and pink plaid, golden curls so perfectly coiffed. Yet, her expression gave Irina considerable pause. It was nearly the same expression she had seen on her employer the night prior. An expression that radiated sadness, loneliness, so much that it almost made her seem . . . seem broken. It was almost too painful to passively take. So she asked. Before she could stop herself, her mouth like rubber, her insides like knots, she asked,

“Mrs. Mott, if you’re offer from last night still stands - and I understand completely if it doesn’t - would you like to perhaps sit down and have a cup of tea together? Tomorrow, I mean? I - er - I don’t believe I have as much to do tomorrow, and if I’m plenty efficient I can finish everything early. If I did, would you like to do that?” The pause, while sensibly speaking, couldn’t have been longer than a few seconds, but to Irina, ears still ringing, it felt nothing short of eternal. 

“Yes, of course. That would be lovely.” Mrs. Mott finally agreed, her voice carrying a bright, bell-like quality that made Irina feel weightless in a way she didn’t realize she could.

“Alright then. Perfect. Tomorrow, then.” She spoke at perhaps a much faster cadence than normal, but she didn’t care. She walked backwards for several steps, before she turned herself around to face the door, after nearly tripping over her own feet. “Let me know if you need anything else while you’re hiding out. I’ll just be downstairs.”

“Of course. And do be careful, should you see that thing.” Her genuine concern was more than a little touching. Irina smiled.

“I will.”

She closed the door behind her, finding herself balancing as she descended back down the stairs, that warm, tingling feeling of excitement, and that low, nagging voice that kept her from floating away in the clouds, firmly in reality.

_ Soon it’ll be gone, Irinka. This infatuation, it will fade, and things can be normal once again. _

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Solnyshko' - translates as 'small sun' or 'little sun'   
> 'Idiotka' - translates as 'idiot girl'  
> Also this chapter contains an easter egg reference to George Orwell's 1984, so if you can spot it you win all the points


	4. Chapter Four

**IV.**

_ September 12, 1952 _

Gloria had been in her bedroom that morning, preparing for her day, when Dandy came blowing through the door, emanating self-assurance, and announced his intention to go out with a friend for the rest of the day. She turned around from her place at the vanity, to better face him.

“That’s a wonderful idea, darling,” She said, brightly. “It would be a very good thing, for you to get out and socialize a bit more.” At this, he rolled his eyes, her approval a seeming scourge on his existence, but she was too relieved to see no trace of one of his moods to motivate his decision, that she didn’t really care too much. She asked him, “When do you think you’ll be back?”

“How should I know?” He snapped in reply, with that familiar irritability. “That’ll all depend on what Mr. Clown and I decide, won’t it?” Gloria’s face fell, once that cruel reality and understanding  hit.

“Oh. You’ll . . . you’ll be with that clown all day?” Dandy scowled at her, as though it were the most idiotic question she could have asked. Perhaps it was  _ was _ idiotic, she realized, with a grimace.  _ Who else could it have been? _ “Dandy, are you absolutely sure that that’s . . . at all safe? This friend of yours, can he really be trusted?” His blue eyes visibly flickered, and he bristled in agitation, causing Gloria to shrink back almost instinctively.

“Of  _ course  _ I’m sure, Mother. Why must you always try and  _ ruin  _ everything?” Almost at once, Gloria was on her feet, approaching her son with caution, in case his arms were to begin flailing.

“You’re right, darling. You would know better than I would. I’m sorry.” She spoke softly, slowly, the instinct to placate practically second nature. “I was only trying to help.” She examined the perfect features of his face, gaze pausing over the angry red gash that rested just above his furrowed brow. It had healed considerably in the last near day, and in that she felt great relief. It had been freshly bleeding the afternoon before, when he returned home, ignoring her inquiries towards his well-being, inquiries to what happen to cause any bleeding along his forehead at all. Of course, those inquiries were temporarily forgotten when she saw the friend he had brought home, with his ghoulish half-mask, his filthy white satin suit, his cold, dead stare that seemed to cut right through her soul, and she became too petrified to say any more.

She reached one hand out towards the cut, and he glowered and slapped it away. She flinched, but recovered quickly, and thought it best to drop the matter. After all, she had been wishing for her son to exhibit more independence, hadn’t she?

“You’ll probably need money, if you’ll be going out, won’t you?” Gloria finally asked, as a sort of concession.  She finally observed, putting on a smile for his benefit. “My pocket book is just over there on the dresser.” Dandy didn’t need to be told twice, and pushed past her in order to retrieve it. He stuffed into his pocket a crumpled up wad of twenties, which she almost objected to, but she stopped herself in time.

“Do try and be back before dark. If you can. Alright, darling?” 

“I’m going to be late, Mother. He’s expecting me.” 

“Alright fine. Go, go. I love you.” She called the last bit more to his back, as a frantic afterthought, but he was already gone, closing the door hard behind him. She was left alone again, with that sense of emptiness, a sense of meaningless within her. 

She went about the rest of her morning routine, walking around the room to keep herself in motion, all the while cursing that wretched clown under her breath. How Dandy couldn’t see what any other rational thinking person could, was utterly baffling. Why, if she didn’t know any better, she would have said that Mr. Clown was responsible for the recent deaths and disappearances.    

She noticed that Dandy had left the handbag on the dresser open and went over to clasp it shut, with a sigh. Her eyes wandered across the mahogany finish, before they fell on the thick book bound in blue leather resting in the corner. It was Irina’s and she practically kicked herself when she realized she’d forgotten to return it once again. She would have to do it that afternoon, when she and Irina were to meet up.  _ If _ she and Irina were to meet up. She had to remind herself to to become too expectant or hopeful of anything. It had been a vague hint of a promise, a perhaps maybe, as opposed to anything definite. 

Still, in the hours that followed, Gloria was left with a deep, unequivocal desire to fill the time until the afternoon, to hasten something that seemed to suddenly be moving so torturously slow. After weighing her limited options carefully, for several moments, she ultimately decided to tend to the garden, and placed the appropriate footwear, lace-up shoes, well-worn and baby pink. She retrieved a sunhat from her wardrobe, and tied the fasteners of it around her chin. Then came her gloves, to prevent her hands from becoming calloused. They had become faded from years of use, the ends frayed and smelling of earth. They were a special form of security to her, like a trusted blanket for a child, where just the feeling of it in your hands - or on your hands, as it were - could calm you from the inside out. 

Outside, there was hardly a cloud in the sky, and the sun beat down hard through the fabric of her dress, causing sweat to prickle against her skin. The air was almost suffocatingly hot, and seemed to hang like a thick coat. For Gloria, there was no other way she would rather have it. She could spend hours in such sweltering conditions, hands hidden beneath the dirt, and surrounded by an array of her sweet smelling flowers that burst with color. Oranges and yellows, pinks and whites, a few reds and blues that stood out among the rest. Azaleas and marigolds, daffodils and snapdragons that hung like little bells, pansies with their delightful patterns that resembled scrunched up faces. Gloria loved every last one of them, loved tending to them, loved looking at them, loved the way the scents would often overpower her senses, the way the petals felt against her hands, all wrinkled and soft, or sometimes just a little rubbery. They felt like a group of old friends to her, and could, in some ways, keep company better than actual people. 

She hadn’t really had much contact with many actual people over the last few months. Almost a year. Well, of course there was Dandy, there was always Dandy, whom she almost depended on, in a way. But real, adult friends with whom she could share things in common, with whom she could confide in. Of course, she possessed a generous number of friends, acquaintances, and peers in her youth, but that number had dwindled considerably within the past few years. There was that social circle of wealthy widows that she would get together and play mahjong with once a week, but that too, seemed to have dwindled completely. The last remaining example would have to have been Dora, who Gloria had known for close to two decades. Dora’s daughter was only eleven months younger than Dandy, and Gloria had watched her grow up, and felt that she had some connection with her maid, both raising children had single parents. Yet, Dora’s recent and sudden departure proved that really, Gloria had not really known the woman at all.

She tended to her collection of Rose of Sharon’s, showering them with water from a faded metal can that splashed and rumbled as it moved around in her hands. The tiny droplets clung to the petals, which prompted Gloria to wipe away at her own brow. Having taken up a hobby that required work out of doors, and worked at it for years and years, she could tell from the heat, and the position of shadows through the garden, that the time had passed high noon. She dared a glance over towards the house.

Why,  _ why _ , was she finding herself anticipating this so, found herself hoping that Irina could finish her day’s work in a timelier fashion than usual? For one flash of a moment, she considered just going inside and telling the young maid she could be finished then and there, no matter how much or how little had actually been accomplished. She knew though that if she actually had the nerve, actually did just that, she would look beyond childish, more childish than Dandy could dream of being. No. There was no need to completely humiliate herself. She would wait patiently, amid the heat and soil, until three o’clock came. . The hours continued to pass, and Gloria began to resign herself to the possibility of Irina deciding not to show up after all, one way or another. Thinking better of it. Or completely forgot all about it. Not that she could be blamed. Gloria had almost convinced herself that she wouldn’t be too defeated if that were the case. The flowers were soon close to being completely tended to, and her cheeks and forehead were burning up, and the inside of her mouth felt like sandpaper. 

It was then, as she she was slipping back inside the house, that Irina was coming out, with a glass of icewater in her hands, and the two very nearly collided with each other.

“Oh,” Said Irina, a bit taken aback, “Hi,”

“Hello there,” Gloria replied, a bit breathlessly. There was a beat, as the older woman tried to regain her composure.  

“I brought you this,” The maid told her quickly, holding out the water, with its ice chips clinking around, the cold of it fogging the glass. “You’ve been working out here for hours now, with so little shade . . .” She turned away, as though embarrassed, but Gloria beamed.

“Of course. That’s very thoughtful.” The iciness hit the skin of her hands in perhaps the best way, and she took several sips before the effect took hold over the rest of her too. “Thank you,” 

“It’s honestly no trouble. I -” Irina paused, “I’m all finished for the day, too. If you still wanted to -”

“Yes, absolutely,” Gloria made no hesitation as she answered. She began to fan herself with her free hand, and continued to drink. She saw a smile begin to tug at the corners of the young woman’s mouth. 

“Would you still like to do tea?” She asked. “Or maybe I could make some cold lemonade.”

“No, tea would be just perfect.” Gloria told her, suddenly craving nothing more. “And let’s have it out here on the veranda. It is such a lovely day.”

“It is,” Irina agreed. “I’ll just be a few minutes to make that.” 

She disappeared back inside, and Gloria found a place, a small, round table with painted white edges, to set down the glass she had nearly forgotten that she was holding. She took a seat in one of the chairs, only for a moment, with her knees bouncing up and down, before she remembered the book that was still waiting on the dresser. She had managed to slip inside to retrieve it, and be back outside again in time to still wait for her destined companion. Perhaps a little more flustered and red cheeked than before, but what of it? 

When Irina returned, with a delicate tray filled with a porcelain pot and matching cups and saucers and everything else needed for tea, Gloria helped her set everything down.    

“I have something for you,” Gloria announced once she sat down again. 

“Oh?” Irina tilted her head up as she finished pouring. Her blonde hair was now tied back with a scarf; spring green silk, and adorned with tiny violets. 

“I’ve been meaning to return it for over a week. I just kept forgetting like a fool.” She held out the book, and Irina’s gray eyes brightened. 

“Oh! My goodness, I’ve been looking everywhere for this!” She exclaimed, as she scooped the book up in her hands, looking down at it in a mix of delight and relief. “I very nearly dismantled my entire bedroom just looking for this blasted thing. Where did you find it?”

“The dining room I think. I hope you don’t mind. I took a bit of a peek at it myself.”

“Mind? Of course I don’t mind. I’m sorry that I left it lying around. I must have completely forgotten it after setting it down or something. I can’t imagine wh-” She stopped short suddenly, and turned away, setting the book down and switching topics. “How do you take it?”

“Oh, erm, little of everything, please.” The young woman nodded, and mixed in the cream and sugar. 

“Is two lumps alright?”

“Yes, perfect.” Irina put nothing in hers, only blowing on it delicately, cradling it between her hands.

“You’ve got quite the dedication.” The maid remarked, after a sip or two. “For this garden, I mean. It’s beautiful.” 

“O-Oh. Thank you.” Gloria flinched a little, genuinely taken aback. “Well, gardening it’s - it’s what I love most in the world. And I don’t think I can do anything as well as I can do that.” She looked towards her handiwork wistfully, before she turned back to her companion and took a sip of her tea. She’d often heard that hot drinks were actually better for you in hot weather than cold ones were, but in this oppressive, Floridian humidity, the effect made her feel hotter still. Not that she minded any. 

“Well it’s certainly nothing to scoff at.” Irina told her, with a directness that was not unkind. “It’s a lovely hobby, Mrs. Mott.” Gloria felt a blush creep into her cheeks, that she was sure had nothing to do with the heat.

“Thank you, dear.” She finally said quietly. She set her cup down and found herself fiddling with the skirts of her dress, the color and pattern distorted by earth and grass stains. “Enough about me, though. What about your hobbies? They’d have to be a sight more interesting than mine.”

“I doubt that very much to be true, Mrs. Mott.” Irina replied, with a shy smile. 

“That book on Egypt seems rather interesting to me. Is that something you’re interested in? Ancient Egypt.”

“Yes. Well. Sort of.” Irina’s fingers tapped against the porcelain, and she rolled her eyes back the way one does when they were trying to recall a word or memory. “I like to read about nearly any ancient civilization. The Mesopotamians, the Aztecs, the Greeks and Romans. The Egyptians just happen to tickle my fancy at this particular moment. It comes and goes, for me.” She shrugged, and spoke like it were nothing, but her eyes suggested an interest and care in the words she was saying. 

“I see. . . so you would say your hobby is reading, then?”

“Yes. Oh, god, it’s so unoriginal isn’t it?” She leaned back in her chair, pulling a face, “But yes. It’s one of the things I like to do. It’s very cost-effective and can accomplish so much with so little?”

“How do you mean?” 

“Well . . . books are sort of the easiest gateway to everything, aren’t they? Take you away from your present existence, and responsibilities and everything else and take you to other worlds and other times and teach you everything your grade school teachers couldn’t.”

“Well, I suppose I can’t argue with that,” Gloria conceded, with a smile. “What else do you enjoy reading?” There was that flicker of delight in her eyes again, and the older woman realized it was quite an enjoyable sight to behold. 

“Adventure books. When I was a kid, I couldn’t get enough of them. Jules Verne and Robert Louis Stevenson . . .  _ Around the World in Eighty Days  _ is still my favorite. I used to take my brother Alexei with me to the library every Saturday, and I would read out loud every last one of the  _ Tarzan  _ books to him, in the back of the muggiest building you could possibly imagine.” She laughed a little, with a hint of whimsy. 

“I’m sure I could.” Gloria said, although she was given some pause. “Alexei. I don’t believe you mentioned him before. There was the other brother of course, and I think a sister.”

“Oh, yes. Natalya. And Andrei. He and Alexei were twins.”

“I see. Whatever became of them?” Irina sipped her tea as she answered,

“Nata’s married now. To a plumber from Pensacola. She lives there now, with her three children. Andrei’s a travelling salesman. He gets to roam the country in a tweed suit and sell people vaccum parts that they don’t actually need.” She laughed some again and Gloria laughed with her, but there was a significant pause that followed.

“And Alexei?” Gloria pressed. Irina visibly stiffened and her expression turned cold.

“He died.” She said, curtly. The atmosphere felt different then, a nerve clearly touched. Gloria’s cheeks flushed in embarrassment, and she regretted saying anything at all. 

“I’m sorry,” She finally spoke again, voice soft, full of sympathy. Irina reluctantly softened.

“No need to be sorry for anything. How could you have known?” She began to dig beneath the nail of one thumb with an index finger, her focus on that for a brief moment before turning back. “I’m sorry, too. It’s just - it’s just not a topic I enjoy speaking of very much.”

“I understand. We don’t have to talk about it anymore.” Gloria assured her, gently. Irina smiled, and seemed to slowly ease back into friendlier spirits once again. They talked of little things for the next long while, neither really remembering or caring what about. The weather, more of books, perhaps. Perhaps some of the easiest sort of talking Gloria had done in ages. They were halfway through second cups of tea, when Irina asked of her, almost suddenly,

“Mrs. Mott, would it be alright if I asked about your family? I mean, if that isn’t too personal a thing to ask.” Gloria blinked in surprise but found herself touched.

“It’s not too personal at all. I’m just afraid that there isn’t very much to tell.” She ran her fingers across the wood of the table absently. “It’s an old family. Our American roots date back to Philadelphia, and then North Carolina for a short while.” Perhaps the more abridged she could go without dragging her ancestors’ alleged connections to the Roanoke colony into the conversation. It was the only slightly altered version her father would give people, because it had all the presence of the history and none of the embarrassment. “This house has only been around for about three generations or so. I’ve lived in it practically my entire life.” 

“Since the time Florida was still a territory you mean?” The young woman asked in disbelief.

“I believe so, yes.” Irina’s gray eyes widened. 

“What about your family, Mrs. Mott? The immediate ones, I mean.” She hesitated.

“Ah, well - my parents both came from money. My father overran a vegetable cannery. My mother was a socialite. They were a bit older when I was born, and I was their only child.” Their only child and a disappointment, surely. There had been a boy, a little over a year before her birth, but he had been delivered early and stillborn. She hadn’t exactly been the heir they were hoping for. She left that part out when relaying her summarized life story to Irina, along with the other details of time that was often filled with overwhelming loneliness. Left out the details of distant parents and perfunctory nannies that smelled of butterscotch. She’d had several cats for companions, a few school mates - the ones who didn’t bully her relentlessly at least - and dolls that she would spend hours arranging and rearranging in her playroom, but very little else aside. At ten, she discovered the art of gardening when she was ten and helping Nanny Cesnik with a set of rosebushes, that could only grow in November, closer to the winter season. That part she did tell Irina, along with the fact that Nanny Cesnik was the only nanny she ever actually liked. 

“. . . I went to an all girls boarding school in Georgia when I was thirteen, then returned to attend high school at a private institution and then came finishing school and my debut.” Gloria continued on, looking down at the leaves of tea at the bottom of her cup. “For the entirety of my twenties I was . . . oh, what’s the word?  . . . a spinster.”

“I think I can understand that.” Irina said, with a dry laugh.

“It about drove my mother mad.” An admission, sure, but one she felt she could spare. “She wanted grandchildren in the worst possible way. Then came the Depression, and I married Dandy’s father. Father died, we inherited the house, and then Dandy came along not long after that. Mother was pleased, of course, and then about a year after that, she died too.”

“What the Mott family another old family?” Irina inquired. Gloria’s lips pursed.

“Well, yes. But I was always a Mott.” 

“Oh,” Was all the young woman said. If Irina was expecting any more clarification, she didn’t show it, and Gloria said nothing more of the matter. 

“I’m really not the most interesting topic of conversation, Irina, believe you me.”

“I wouldn’t say that that’s true, Mrs. Mott.” Irina said, as though it were matter-of-fact. Gloria laughed, throwing her head back a little bit. 

“Why don’t you tell me more about what you’re reading.” She suggested, and Irina seemed happy enough to comply. They they began to talk of just that. Ghoulish death practices of the ancient Egyptians, beautifully crafted artwork within the pyramid tombs, worship of cats, and soon, when the topic of Ancient Egyptians had been exhausted, they discussed music, and Gloria found herself talking about seeing  _ The King and I  _ in New York City nearly two years before. Dandy had gone back six more times in a row. As it progressed to the preferences in less modern music, Irina proved herself to have a surprisingly extensive knowledge of the classical and romantic composers of Europe. She possessed a slight lilt in her voice when she spoke, Gloria observed. Not too pronounced, but distinct enough to give it a crisp pleasant quality. 

They soon migrated inside, when they saw the makings of an angry storm cloud. The grandfather clock chimed fifteen to seven to signify their arrival. 

“Goodness, I had no idea it was so late.” Gloria remarked in surprise. The cool air of the house felt welcome against her, although it made her realize how damp she’d begun. Unable to explain why, she was suddenly embarrassed for her appearance, for the young woman, with her well-kept dress and pretty silk scarf, to see her in such a state. She began to fiddle with her curls, which the humidity had begun to unset from their rightful place. “Dandy hasn’t come in, yet.”

“No?” Irina asked.

“The house always has a different air to it when he’s around.” She smiled, somewhat fondly. “Hopefully he’ll get in by sundown.” The truth was, she really didn’t know if he would or not. No matter what she told herself or anyone else. “I think I’m going to leave you here, Irina. I need to take a long hot bath and scrub all this dirt off.” Irina nodded in understanding. 

“Would you like me to tell Mrs. Bailey to send something upstairs to you?” She asked. As though on cue, Gloria’s stomach began to rumble, and her mind flashed back to the other night.

“Yes,” She finally said. “That would probably be best.” 

“Alright then. I’ll just be in the kitchen washing dishes,” Irina motioned to the tray in her arms. “If you need anything else.” She paused, and a slight grimace washed across her features, eyebrows furrowing and long nose wrinkling, before she spoke again. “Mrs. Mott, could I ask you for a favor?”

“Of course. Anything.” Irina sighed.

“Next Thursday, a few of my friends are having a sort of welcoming dinner, for a cousin of theirs, and they aren’t keen on the idea of him being on his own while they’re - well - together, and - er, they asked me to tag along. I know I’ve been taking my half days in the morning until now, but would it be alright if I switched it to the evening, just this once to go?” Her grimace had not gone away. 

“Yes, of course.” Gloria didn’t even hesitate to speak. “That shouldn’t be any problem, dear.” Still, Irina’s face remained unchanged. 

“Are you sure?” She asked. 

“Of course I’m sure. Go on. Have fun.” 

“I’m not sure how much fun I’ll be having.” She said, in an almost grumble. “Mostly disparaging my friends’ hopes that I’ll wind up marrying this total stranger.” She stopped herself then, and shook her head, before changing her demeanor. “Thank you though, Mrs. Mott. Julia will be thrilled.” She looked down towards the wood of the tray. “I should probably get out of your hair now. Let you take your bath.” 

“Oh, right. Of course.” Gloria had almost forgotten, in that short span of time. She didn’t want to leave, but she knew it was perhaps for the best. Irina had almost left the room, when Gloria had to stop her suddenly, the older woman nearly kicking herself for not saying what she had to sooner.

“Wait, Irina.” The maid paused mid-step, and turned.

“Yes?”

“I - I had a wonderful time today. Truly.” If her insides had been in knots before, they were dangerously close to leaping out when Irina’s soft smile returned.

“I had a wonderful time too, Mrs. Mott.”

“We should do this again soon.”

“I agree.”

“Well. That was all I wanted to say. I’ll let you go now.” She finished and Irina giggled, a warm and throaty sound.

“Alright. Good night, Mrs. Mott.”

“Good night, dear.”

With that, Irina was gone, and Gloria stood alone in the back foyer, covered in dirt and sweat, and laced with the sensation of content. At first. As she retreated upstairs, Gloria thought about Irina’s request, of what she said about her friends’ hopes that she might marry this young man she was to be the companion of. Of course she was speaking in extremes, had to be, but there was something about it that left the older woman cold, left a bitter dejection within her.     

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. Chapter Five

**V.**

_ September 18, 1952 _

In the near week that followed their last visit, Irina wasn’t able to cross paths with Gloria for longer than a few minutes. Dandy would take up the time of his mother, when he wasn’t out and about, and those in Irina’s social circle seemed to be taking up hers. Not that she minded, necessarily. Not all the time. On Monday, Julia called, to give her all the necessary information needed for Thursday, the time and address for a more upscale Italian restaurant in West Palm Beach, with instructions to wear something nice. Irina wrote everything down in her journal, where she kept everything of importance recorded, accurately and dutifully, and she kept her tone as upbeat as was possible for her to do. 

She was not ready for Thursday to arrive, not ready for it to creep in with the dawn that created a fiery colored sky. Of course, she had been awake when Thursday truly came about, and she could hear the dim twelve chimes of the grandfather clock upstairs. She had been laying on her back, book abandoned but propped open at her feet, and arms crossed as she glowered at the photograph of her father, as though all of it were his fault, somehow. Of course, once the morning arrived, she had to run her hands over the picture frame, as a way of apology. 

The morning was spent working around the house diligently, operating on a breakfast of coffee and toast. It was menial, as always, and she occupied her time by quietly humming her drinking songs, reviewing the rest of the weeks schedule, and muttering a quick orthodox prayer that she would have normally given at the Catholic church at that same time. She skipped lunch in favor of going over the evening schedule with Mrs. Bailey, and ironing and folding the spare linens that had been washed and dried with precision. She was ashamed to admit that she was perhaps working at a more sedated pace than she would normally, as though that might slow the clocks until they stopped completely.

Yet, five o’clock still arrived, as inescapable as the tide. Irina finished the last of her dusting before putting her supplies away and retreating to her room to ready herself. A few bobby pins to pull back her hair, along with a silent plea for them to stay in place for the rest of the night, a touch of blush and lipstick, and a spritz of her Evening in Paris perfume for luck. Finally, she retrieved her nicest dress from the closet, holding it by the hanger at a distance as she rested it down across her bed. It had never been her favorite thing to wear. The pale pink of the fabric didn’t suit her complexion well and the color, as well as the lace on the collar and down the buttoned bodice, reminded her of her Sunday best from when she was a child. The fabric irritated her skin, and the collar never seemed to lose its stiffness. She probably would have given it away by now, had the dress not been a gift from her sister three Christmases ago. Of course, she knew that, in all likelihood, she could turn the dress into curtains for all Nata cared, but still, the dress remained, hanging in the back of her closet until the special occasions for it arise. Such as a blind date in a swanky part of West Palm Beach.

She still had some time to kill, a little over an hour - she didn’t need to be in West Palm until seven o’clock, and the drive itself wouldn’t take much more than twenty minutes - and she began to tidy up her room. Or at the very least, tidy up as much as was possible to. Back home in that second floor apartment in Saint Petersburg, in the bedroom she and her younger sister shared, it had easy for anyone to tell which side was hers and which side was Nata’s. Her need for order and cleanliness meant clothes that were always folded and put away, a bed made with thin sheets tucked into corners, and limited possessions placed in the same spots in her dresser drawers. Her cozy room in the servants quarters downstairs was no different. She rearranged the possessions kept in boxes under her bed. Mostly childish mementos or old things that once belonged to Mama and Papa, that her siblings either didn’t want or have any use for. A nesting doll painted in red, yellow, and blue, with a small chip in its head, a faded pencil case that still smelled of waxy crayons, a wooden smoking pipe. As she rifled through one of the chest of worthless treasures, there were two items that caught her eye; an oval locket, with a jeweled flower crest on its front, and a book titled  _ An Introduction on the Flora of the Florida Peninsula.  _ She filched both from the box, setting the book on her nightstand, to save for later, and impulsively securing the necklace round her neck, the gold pendant resting on her chest. She looked down at the sight of it, and the ghost of a smile traced her lips. It could be her good luck charm, for the night.

She didn’t notice the hem of her skirt catch onto a loose nail hiding among the floorboards, as she crouched down to shove the boxes back under her bed. Didn’t check before standing up a bit too quickly, pulling the skirt hard. Then came the sound of fabric ripping, and the color drained from her face in horror, before being quickly replaced by biting anger.

“ _ Blyad _ !” She shouted out of instinct. She looked down on the floor and spotted the culprit, swearing again with much more creative vulgarity. Those damn nails were everywhere along that old wooden floor. She should have been paying better attention. Now there was a hole, too prominent not to notice, along the waist of the dress, pink threads hanging limp and broken along the gap. Irina glowered. 

“Son of a bitch,” She swore in English this time, and she covered her mouth and tried to ignore the tears of frustration pricking at her eyes. There was no way she could fix this in time, not sufficiently anyway. Not with her skill. It was one of the few domestic tasks she had never gotten the hang of, with big, crooked stitches and pricked fingers and heightened distemper, and a headache from squinting every time she tried. Nata took over the chore exclusively when she was twelve, and it seemed the best solution for everyone involved. Irina didn’t even keep a sewing kit on-hand, vowing to compensate by simply take extra care of her clothing and hope that nothing happened, nothing like being bested by a nail in a loose floorboard. Perhaps Dora had left something behind in one of the supply cupboards upstairs, she thought, and she held onto the damaged side of her dress with a clasped fist as she shuffled out of her room. 

She was rifling through one of the cupboards in question, her grumblings beginning to bubble up and bring an insufferable heat to her face, when Mrs. Mott found her. Her employer was coming in from the gardens, using the backway, a basket of lilies, carnations, and peonies that created a wave of greens, purples and blues, tucked under her arm. She and Irina studied each other carefully for a moment, and even Irina’s frustration couldn’t mask her liking of seeing the older woman. Mrs. Mott spoke first,

“I - I thought these would make for a lovely bouquet in the dining room,” She explained, eyes travelling to the flowers.

“They would,” Irina, who did have a bias towards cool colors, agreed. Mrs. Mott’s eyes travelled back to Irina.

“What are you doing?” She asked, more a tone of curiosity than accusation. Reluctantly, Irina relented. 

“I was looking to see if there was any sort of sewing kit around. I - I tore a hole in my best dress, you see.” Oh, god, it sounded so childish and irresponsible when it was uttered aloud, she thought, with a grimace. “Of course, not that finding one would actually make any sort of difference, because I’m absolutely useless with a needle and thread, and I’ll need to leave soon and . . .” She let out another sigh of frustration, and nervously ran the fingers of her free hands through her hair. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t trouble you with my own petty troubles.” Mrs. Mott’s blue eyes began to glitter with sympathy. 

“Where is the tear?” She asked, gently. Irina responded by unclenching her fist, that had remained clasped tightly this entire time. Mrs. Mott leaned in to inspect the damage, with pursed lips. She stepped back again, and her expression remained unconcerned. “Right. Well. I might have a sewing kit hiding away in the study. It looks like it would be simple enough to fix. I could give it a try . . . if you’d like.” 

“I couldn’t put you out like that, Mrs. Mott.”

“You wouldn’t be putting me out, Irina. It really does look like an easy tear to mend.” Irina considered the offer with care. It was out of practicality after all, and time efficiency. It wouldn’t be selfish, or unwise, to accept. That was her line of reasoning at least. So she accepted, and reluctantly followed Mrs. Mott into the study.  

The sewing kit turned out to be hidden underneath one of the end tables, a puffy green box, with a long, wickered handle. Its contents clattered around inside as Mrs. Mott searched around.

“Oh, I  _ know  _ that I had some pink thread somewhere in here.” She muttered, lips pursed. More rifling and irritated grumbling, before finally, “Aha! Here we go.” She held the spool delicately in her hand, along with a few other supplies, a pair of scissors, a needle that glittered in the sunlight. She found an armchair to settle herself into, and she beckoned Irina, who had been standing awkwardly in the doorway, closer.

“Over here, on this side, dear,” She was all business now, and Irina obeyed, immediately. She willed her hands to keep steady as she placed herself within such close contact of her employer. Mrs. Mott’s hands were, by contrast, steady, soft, cool, like iced sweet butter, as they held onto the broken fabric. She snipped away the loose threads, folded the rest down with precision. Irina stole a glance of her as she worked, and saw that Mrs. Mott had put on a pair of reading glasses, threading the needle. She didn’t think it were possible for such an accessory, or rather necessity, could make the older woman all the more lovely, but it did, and Irina’s breath caught. She caught Mrs. Mott’s pale blue eyes before she could look away in time, and when the older woman gave her a warm smile, Irina’s stomach dropped about a thousand feet.  _ Pathetic. Simply pathetic, little Irinka, that’s what you are.  _

“This should be fixed up in a pinch,” Mrs. Mott assured her, as she hooked the needle into fabric. “In time for your outing with your friends. That’s what it is you’re dressed up for, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Irina said, trying to keep the complete lack of enthusiasm out of her voice. “Julia picked a nice place outside of town.” A pregnant pause, as Mrs. Mott continued to work and Irina played with her knuckles.

“Is everything else alright, dear?” Mrs. Mott finally asked her. Her voice carried genuine concern. “You seem distracted.”

“What? Oh. Yes, I’m fine.” This was a lie, of course, but she knew that her employer, already putting herself out to perform such a kindness, didn’t need to hear about the influx of Irina’s self pity. 

“Because - it’s perfectly normal for you to feel nervous. I always did during social outings with boys.” The young woman’s eyes widened a little in embarrassed understanding. 

“Oh. N-no, I -” She stopped herself in time, before she could tell the kind older woman that there was nothing to do with nerves on her part, but rather, a complete absence of desire to go on this date, with its semi-romantic atmosphere hanging overhead, with a complete stranger related to someone she didn’t particularly care for. “Yes. Completely normal.” 

Mrs. Mott worked in concentrated silence for the next several minutes. Irina’s eyes wandered about the room, and for her part, she did an admirable job of pretending that she couldn’t feel the older woman’s hand moving against her waist, feel her warm breath on her arm. She soon longed to fill the silence once again.

“This is quite a lovely room, Mrs. Mott.” She said, earnestly, “If you don’t mind me saying so.” Mrs. Mott hardly looked up from her work, although her features visibly brightened.

“No, not at all. It is, isn’t it? This used to be my hiding spot when I was a girl. When it was too hot or raining too hard to go out into the gardens.”

“Oh?” Irina’s curiosity piqued, in spite of itself. “What sort of things did you enjoy doing in here? I mean, since gardening is a bit out of the question.” She turned her face away at once, grimacing at her own poor joke. She couldn’t decide which was worse, the flat humor or how embarrassingly obvious it was that she was remembering all those details Mrs. Mott had mentioned the previous week. The older woman, however, did not seem affronted.

“Oh, lots of little things. Play with dolls, practice my stitching. Draw at Father’s desk over there,” Her needle-free hand pointed in the appropriate direction. 

“How lovely.” Irina replied. The widow chuckled a little.

“I wouldn’t say that. I wasn’t any sort of Claude Monet or anything like that.” She sighed. “Still. It passed the time I suppose.”

The eye of Irina’s mind flashed back, about five or six years, all of a sudden. Transported to Kathy’s small apartment, where a framed replica of Monet’s waterlilies hung from across the bed. It was one of the only details she remembered of that apartment, of that room, in spite of the fact that she had been there more than a few times in those few months.Kathy adored Monet, although not as much as Irina adored Kathy. Or at least, as much as she  _ thought _ she adored Kathy. 

She shook her mind of those thoughts almost as quickly as they’d appeared, and went back to concentrating on Mrs. Mott’s words, and progressing handiwork, on how prominently she could take in her floral perfume from where she stood. She thought about mentioning her own secret hideaway from childhood, the cupboard under the kitchen sink, but she stopped herself before she could.

“There,” Mrs. Mott said, with finality, and a snip of thread. “Good as new.” Irina repositioned herself, twisting, in order to see the finished result. The handiwork of her employer was of a quality that could rival that of any seamstress. Stitching so clean and precise, only if you looked hard enough could you see the mending.

“I couldn’t make the place where the tear was completely disappear,” Mrs. Mott explained, apologetically, “and you can always run it through a sewing machine when you have time but -”

“It’s perfect, Mrs. Mott. Thank you.” Irina told her, unable to keep the grin off her face. “You’re a lifesaver.” Mrs. Mott only chuckled, bushing, turning away. 

“You flatter me, Irina.” She said. There was a beat of silence. Irina caught a glimpse of the time on the small clock resting on the late Mott senior’s desk.

“Oh, god, the time! I really need to get going.” She turned to her employer once again. “Really, Mrs. Mott, thank you. I -er . . .I’ll try to be back before ten.”

“Alright,” She complied, nodding. “Please be careful though. That maniac is still roaming about.”

“I know. I’ll try my best.” 

“Alright.” She smiled, almost wearily. “You should go. I shouldn’t keep you anymore with my worrying.”

Irina would have very much liked for Mrs. Mott to keep her for as long as she wanted, but that was yet another thing she restrained herself from saying as she departed.

**~*~*~*~**

Julia approached Irina the moment she saw her enter Bella Cucina, and pulled the young woman into the tightest hug. 

“You are the absolute best for doing this, do you know that?” She said, brightly, with a kiss to Irina’s cheek. She gave her a quick once over. “Warren’s just over there. Ooooh, you’re going to absolutely love him I just know it.” Irina smiled a humorless smile, and allowed for her friend to guide her past the array of tables in their red checked tablecloths. She recognized the symmetrical features, and perpetual smirk of Tom instantaneously, and as they approached their designated table, she caught her first glimpse of her destined companion for the night. He stood up almost as soon as he saw her, almost knocking his chair over in the process.

“Hi,” He said, blinking nervously. 

“Hello,” Irina said back. “Dr. Livingstone, I presume?” 

“I suppose so.” He told her, with a grin and an extended hand. “If you’re the friend I’ve heard so much about.”

“She is,” Offered Julia, “Warren Vial, this is Irina Petrov. Irina, this is Warren.” Hands met, and Warren’s turned out to be warm and clammy.

“Nice to finally meet you.” He said, unsmiling. He looked absolutely nothing like his cousin. He had a lanky frame, wiry copper hair, and a rabbity face. He wore thick, round glasses, and a tweed suit and bowtie. She noticed that his shoes were perfectly shined, and that he kept a pocket watch in his front pocket. 

“Likewise,” Was her only reply.

They wound up sitting across from each other, the girls on one side and the boys on the other. Tom ordered a bottle of wine for the table, and the first several minutes were spent with everyone scanning the menus, with the occasional conversational tittering from Tom or Julia over what was good and what wasn’t. when the waiter returned with the bottle. Irina stopped him from pouring any into her glass.

“I’ll just stick with water,” She said, and, adding in reply to the Julia’s inquisitive look, “I’m a terrible lightweight. And I’m driving.” Another lie. She had no idea what her tolerance to alcohol was. She always too afraid to touch a drop. She knew from years of watching her father put away entire bottles of cheap Russian vodka in a day the way he said his father and grandfather had always done before that, the preference her own sister seemed to have for martinis before breakfast, how terrifyingly easy it would be for alcohol to take over her entire way of being. The waiter took their orders, and departed again.

“So. Irina.” Warren said to her, slowly. “Is it true that you work for one of the wealthiest families in town? That’s what Julia said.”

“Yes, of course it’s true.” She said, not looking up from the menu. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Oh.” He went quiet.

Irina must have read everything at least three times, even though she had already decided what she wanted from the first go round. After a pause, she stole a glance at her designated companion. He was fidgeting; she could feel his knee bouncing up and down from beneath the table. She wondered how prepared he had been for this evening, if he had been ambushed, if he had agreed to go on this on a sort-of date with a girl that he didn’t know from Eve, to appease his friends, if he was just as uncomfortable as she was. She suddenly felt ashamed, somehow, and rectified the silence as best she could. She set down the menu and folded her hands     

“Julia and Tom tell me that you’ve come here to transfer to a university in town.” Warren looked up, in slight surprise at her speaking, but he gave a little nod.

“Yes. Well. Sort of.” He scratched at the back of his long neck. “I’m taking a semester off at my doctorate program, and doing some research with a program here for the next few months.” Irina’s eyebrows raised.

“A doctorate program?” She said. 

“Turned down a job in the family business for a stiff writing hand and boring lectures. I’ve never understood it.” Tom interjected, with a laugh. Irina ignored him and pressed, 

“That’s quite a dedication, I must say. What in?”   

“Philosophy.” He said, voice visibly more enthusiastic with every passing word. “Eastern philosophy more specifically. And Chinese philosophy if you want to get more specific than that.”

“Oh,” She said, unable to hide her admiration. “That sounds fascinating.” Warren gave her his first smile of the evening. 

“I like to think so. My research intends to design a course on the history and fundamentals of Confucian philosophy, and the effect that it has had, and continues to have, on society around the world.” He spoke his words as though he had thought of them several times over, practiced and practiced, in his mind, the way those who spoke of their passions so often did.

“Oh, criminy, Warren, don’t bore Irina with any of that.” Said Tom, braying. “Not like she’d really know that much about eastern philosophy anyway. Who does?” Warren didn’t laugh with him. A sudden flicker of rage coursed through Irina, and she stared coldly in Tom’s direction. Who was he to determine what she knew or didn’t? Just because he studied business and she only had a high school diploma.

“Well, it’s true, I haven’t had a chance to read as much on philosophy.” She admitted, feeling that was at least owed, but unwilling to let Tom have the upper hand. “But I have read a fair bit on the east itself. The Silk Road, the army of statues in an underground tomb, the famous book burning.”

“Oh, yes!” Said Warren, as he adjusted his glasses in an animated fashion. “The first emperor! I almost went into the history department as a first year, just to do more in-depth studying on that dynasty.” With that, he began to give her an abridged history of his scholarly pursuits. How beginning with history had led him to an interest in theology, and that, ultimately, led him to his love for philosophy. Irina asked questions every now and again, trying to refrain from bombarding him with too many, out of her fascination for what university life must have been like. The waiter soon reappeared with food, and Irina, hungry from having skipped lunch, wasted no time in tucking into her seafood ravioli.

“-so, have you ever been?” Warren asked, only the latter half of the question reaching her ears.

“What?" She said, after swallowing her most recent bite. 

“The Cypress swamps. Ever been?” 

“Oh, right.” She remembered that he had mentioned a hobby of sailing and fishing, stemmed from bonding time with his father and uncle. “No, I haven’t. I mostly grew up in the city. Never had a chance to get to the swamps. And now my job is too time consuming to really get out much . . .”

“Oh, well that’s too bad. They’re a swell time. When you can see them, that is” He gave Tom a self-deprecating look, which caused Julia to snort a little into her drink. Irina noticed that Tom’s face had become flushed after his third glass. “You - you’re a housekeeper, aren’t you?”

“More of a live-in maid, but yes. For the Motts up on the hill.” She hoped that this clarification would suffice as an apology, for her curtness over the similar question earlier.

“Oh, you’re working for the Mott family. Not a bad arrangement, not bad at all.”

“How about you, Mr. Academia? What do you do, besides tour swamps and study philosophy?” There was a beat, as Warren chewed on his veal marsala. 

“Well, for the time being, I’m working for the campus library. But, er, my plan is to become a professor of philosophy. For a university.” This time, Irina couldn’t contain her amazement or intrigue.

“Really?” He nodded. 

“It shouldn’t be that hard for him to get, by any means.” Julia offered, “Warren is beyond brilliant. Classroom setting is perfect for him.”

“Aw, Julia.” Warren said, although he did not appear displeased at her words.

“It makes a decent living.” He said, matter-of-factly. “I mean - I’m hoping to settle down soon, and that’s always important to consider.”

“On that note -” Tom said suddenly, raising up his wine glass. “Julia and I have an announcement to make.”  He seemed to want to leave more of a dramatic pause, but Julia was unable to contain herself and she held up her right hand, and the glittering diamond on her finger helped explain it all.

“We’re engaged!” The excitement in her voice was palpable, her expression gleaming with pride. There was of course the influx of congratulations from Irina and Warren, followed by questions about set dates, who else had been told, all the ones that could be asked without becoming too intrusive. Then came a toast, initiated by Tom, and three red glasses connected with one clear. Irina caught Warren’s eye, bigger through the glass lenses, and she looked to her food, quickly.  _ Don’t be selfish.  _ She chided herself.  _ It’s Julia and Tom’s happiness. It’s not like anyone expects engagement to catch.  _

Still, she suddenly thought of Mrs. Mott in that moment, what being engaged to  _ her  _ would be like, instead, but the reality set back in, and her pasta turned to rubber and polystyrene in her mouth.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Irina slipped back through the front door of Mott Manor shortly before ten, her neck and underarms stiff from the dress fabric, stomach churning, and desperately tired. The lights were dim as far as she could see, and there weren’t any footsteps heard throughout the house. She made it a ways through the hallway, removing her heels that had begun to pinch at her feet, making her way back down to the servants quarters, to her book and her bed.

“What are doing out here?” A voice behind her asked, and Irina about jumped out of her skin. It was not the silvery voice of Mrs. Mott, nor was it her perfume that suddenly entranced the room. She turned, to the strong cologne, and towards the harsh staccato belonging to Dandy.

“Going to bed.” She told him, pointedly.

“I heard you coming in from the front door.” His tone was oddly accusatory. 

“I just got back home. Where’s your mother?”

“She went to bed.” 

“Oh,” She looked him over, and noticed he was wearing his own best attire.

“Where have you been?” 

“None of your business.” He snapped. “What about you? Where have you been all evening?”

“None of your business.” She turned, preparing to depart. 

“You can’t turn in just yet.” He told her, with a cross of his arms. “There’s someone on the phone for you.” 

“What? Who?” 

“How should I know? Some girl, I think. Mother told her you weren’t back, but they just said to keep the phone off the hook until you got here. And you’re here now, so deal with it.” It was now his turn to attempt to depart.

“Who on earth would be trying to call at this hour?” She asked aloud. He gave a gigantic sigh of exasperation.

“I already  _ told _ you! I don’t know, now stop asking stupid questions!” He stalked off in a huff, and Irina could do nothing but roll her eyes as she searched for which phone was off the hook. Julia couldn’t have gotten home and to a phone that quickly, could she? 

Then she found it, black and sleek and lying in wait.

“Hello?” She asked into the receiver almost cautiously, in case she would be met with dead air or a dial tone. 

“Irina?” A familiar voice responded, after a moment. “Irina, it’s Penny.” 

“Oh!” Her eyes went wide in recognition, “Oh, hi.”

“I’m sorry for taking so long to call. And for doing it so late. I had to wait until I had the house to myself.”

“It’s perfectly alright.” Irina assured her, probably one of her first complete truths of the evening. Penny paused, with a deep breath.

“I-I think I’m ready to talk about it.”

“Alright then.”

So Penny talked, and Irina was ready to listen.      

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Blyad' - very important word. Translates as 'fuck'
> 
> The book is a real book I found about flora and fauna in Florida published in the twenties, but the restaurant in West Palm I had to make up


	6. Chapter Six

**VI.**

_ September 24, 1952 _

Red-faced with irritation, Gloria attempted to do the final buttons of her dress, with absolutely no avail. Several more tries followed, strung together with a series of increasingly angrier curse words, before she surrendered to the damn thing, sore-armed and scowling. This level of frustration, which had become more par for the course in the mornings, far too quickly, she realized. It wasn’t something she liked to ponder too much, it being one of the most non-problem problems out there, but staring at herself, half dressed and flustered, the inability to wear clothes that fastened in the back without issue was far too easy to bemoan.

As she reluctantly switched out the guilty dress in question, for one with buttons down the front, she remembered back when Dora used to work for her, and this sort of thing would never happen. She would come in, every morning after breakfast and every evening before bedtime, and fasten and unfasten Gloria’s dresses with her trademark efficiency. Often, that was when they’d have a majority of their conversations, both in the professional and personal capacity. They were just as likely to discuss the day’s upcoming schedules, as they were to share stories of Dandy, or Dora’s own daughter, of about the same age. It had been one of the enduring tasks the housemaids of the house would have. The maid of Gloria’s own mother did it, as did the maid of her grandmother before, etcetera, etcetera. Of course, women’s clothing had evolved quite generously by 1952, had become much more practical than it had been in her mother’s day, women no longer being bound by corsets and skirts that stretched a mile. That was why, after Dora’s resignation, Gloria had simply taken the habit of dressing herself. By the time Irina came along, she had become so accustomed to the task that she never assigned it to -

The epiphany hit her suddenly, as she had fastened the last of the buttons. Why  _ couldn’t  _ she assign the task to Irina? Why had she never thought of doing so now, up until this point? After all, not only would it help lift the inconveniences of out-of-reach fasteners, but it would also allow for the two women to engage in conversation not once, but twice a day. She’d found herself missing the company of the younger woman on days when they saw so little of each other, both busy with their individual responsibilities. Even if there was little time for talking as well, the prospect of still at least seeing Irina on a daily basis was still a lovely one. Still, Gloria hesitated. Was it really reasonable for her to ask Irina to take on such a task. One that would involve seeing her employer in a state of undress day after day. 

_ Oh, what of it? _ She’d decided, after that moment’s pause. How was Irina, really, different from Dora, who had seen Gloria in such an exposed state every day for twenty years without a second thought. Irina was nothing short of a consummate professional, and to think any less was an insult to the girl’s character. It was just her mind, Gloria decided, creating problems where none existed. Again. She navigated the house in search of the maid, before she could change her mind.

She found Irina in the kitchen, washing the dishes from breakfast, elbow deep in water and soap. If she was surprised to see the older woman, her expression did not show it. 

“Oh,” She said, removing her hands at once and drying them with a towel, “Hello, Mrs. Mott.”

“There’s no need to do that, Irina,” Gloria told her, keeping her place in the doorway. “I’ll only be a moment. I - er - I wanted to tell you that I have a new chore I’d like to add to your daily roster.”  _ Oh, god, it’s going to sound so stupid if I say it aloud . . . _

She took a deep breath, “I’d like for you to start assisting me in the mornings and evenings with dressing and undressing, in my room, from now on. I-I’d forgotten to ask this of you before, but I’m doing it now.” There was a pause, and Irina blinked and nodded. Finally, she asked,

“What times did you want me there?” 

“O-oh, well,” Another pause. Gloria hadn’t completely thought that far ahead. “Nine in the morning, after breakfast, and, oh, nine in the evening, I think will do fine. I used to have to change several times a day, for parties and events and such, but now, I think those two times will be plenty.” Irina nodded, again, her expression remaining the same.

“That shouldn’t be a problem.” She said. “Do - would you like me to start tomorrow?”

“I was thinking tonight, if that works for you.” Was Gloria’s reply, which she followed with playing with the fabric of her skirt, eyes becoming fascinated with the pattern.  

“Alright, then,” Said Irina, brightly, “I’ll see you tonight then, at nine o’clock.”

“Perfect!” Gloria replied, with a little too much enthusiasm that made her cringe internally with embarrassment. Still, she left the room, with a feeling of elation, that she hadn’t had since their tea date from several weeks before. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

Dandy was glowering as he stared at his collection of Scrabble pieces, and Gloria could practically see the wheels turning inside his head. 

“Go on, Dandy,” She urged him, patiently, “Whatever letters you put down will be perfectly fine.” 

“I know that, Mother, don’t rush me!” He snapped back in reply. She said nothing, only held up her hands, and fidgeted a little in her chair. Finally, after a long, long while of deliberation, he set down two wooden blocks, creating a new word, ‘HE’.  

“See?” Gloria said, smiling with maternal pride, “You’re so clever, darling.” He rolled his eyes at her gushings, and told her, 

“It’s your turn.” Gloria nodded, and looked over her own set of letters. Her eyes narrowed in concentration. 

“Well. I just don’t know how I’ll be able to find a word as well as you.” As she said this, she tried to ignore the fact that her collection of letters perfectly spelled out ‘ANXIOUS’. She thought about repositioning her tray so that Dandy wouldn’t see, but she knew that he probably wouldn’t notice one way or the other. 

It was three o’clock in the afternoon, and Gloria wanted to take in every moment of the quality time that her son wanted to spend with her. It had been his idea after all, having come bursting into the study, where she had been reading, informing her that he didn’t feel like going out that day and demanded that she play a game with him. Of course, she could do nothing but agree, and so there they were, sitting across from one another in Dandy’s playroom, and piecing together words on a Scrabble board. Dandy loved any sort of game with the end result being to win. Specifically, he liked games with the end result of him winning. The last time that he didn’t, when a fourteen year old Regina had reached the Candy Castle first, Dandy had flipped the board with all its pieces over, and screamed and flailed so loudly that he was left with a hoarse throat and Regina without a tuft of her hair. Now, years later, Gloria pretended to deliberate, before she placed down an N, next to his ‘HE’ to create ‘HEN’. Only one new point to his new five. This seemed to please him, and they continued on.

She tried to initiate conversation,

“Do you remember the summer of 1937? When you were a boy? We played board games like this every day.” Of course, she remembered it well, spending the summer with her child, for whom she desperately wanted to provide comfort and solace, and received plenty from him in turn, after that spring, after Mr. Mott’s sudden suicide. 

“I remember playing a lot of boring games.” Was all he said, with what seemed genuine indifference. She ignored his response, and the pang his callousness left in her chest. She supposed Dandy had never been one to mince around with his emotions. Even as a young boy, he lacked any real sense of sentimentality, or tact, or any desire for expressed affection, either to give or to receive. If something displeased him, he told you so with no hesitation, and with no regard to anyone’s feelings accept his own. He deplored hugs and kisses, which further seemed to confirm to Gloria that her lifelong desire for affection was unfounded and somehow abnormal. The material possessions of the playroom and beyond did far more to appease him. Well, if it kept him happy . . .

“You know, I’m really enjoying spending the afternoon with you,” She told him, sincerely after several turns and newly constructed words, “I feel as though it’s been awhile since the last time we’ve been able to do something like this, together.” 

“Don’t be stupid. We see each other every day.”

“I know.” Gloria replied, with a little defensiveness. “I just - well . . . we’ve both been much busier lately. You’re making friends - which, I’m so proud of,” No reason to lie about that, “You’ve got your clown, now.” She tried to hide her apparent revulsion, by swiftly changing topics. “How-how is he? The clown I mean.” Dandy shrugged, as he created ‘DO’.

“I don’t know. As good as a clown can be.” A sigh, “I’m bored.”

“Well, there’s just a few more turns to go, darling. Then we can do something else, if you’d like.” 

Dandy didn’t appear to relish this prospect much, but to Gloria’s relief, he conceded. 

In truth, her own mind was beginning to wander, too, to other things that she was looking more forward to. She thought of finally taking care of that empty patch of garden in the backyard, where she was planning to put in bulbs that would grow into daylilies. She thought of her book, that she had become quite invested in, and was dying to finish. She finally allowed her thoughts to go to Irina, whom she was looking forward to seeing most of all. She didn’t care if they would spend only five minutes together discussing the weather and tomato mulch, long as she was able to have a conversation. They had become the highlights of any day spent in Irina’s company. 

She hadn’t been paying as much attention as she should have to what pieces she was putting down across the board, not paying heed at what would keep the game in Dandy’s favor. She noticed Dandy’s contribution, ‘CAP’, and used her available letters to create a new word, ‘CAPITULATE’. To cease to resist an opponent. To surrender. She didn’t know why the word came into her mind, or why she opted to play it, but the letters were added, and she didn’t realize until too late that she had officially used all of her letters, and that the last piece had been placed on one of the red squares. Dandy’s eyes went dark, and Gloria’s blood ran cold.  _ Oh, damn, oh damn, oh damn! Stupid,  _ stupid _ woman! Now, you’ve done it.  _

“You cheated.” He said to her, with a mixture of pain and anger. “That’s not fair, mother, you cheated so you could win!” He was beginning to grow red in the face, eyebrows furrowed so heavily that they wrinkled, his breaths growing heavier as he rose out of his chair. Gloria felt that panicking feeling rise in her own chest, and she racked her brain trying to fix her own foolish mistake. 

“N-no, of course I didn’t, Dandy,” She said, slowly, soothingly, hoping to wane the impending tantrum so she could continue thinking. “In fact. . . I believe you’ve actually won. I-I mean, if the rules are anything to go by.”

“What are you talking about? What rules?” He leaned forward a little with gesticulating arms, and she flinched. 

“Well the rule about trading the winning points, of course. The word began as your own, after all, I only finished it. Therefore, the winning fifty points go to you. It’s in the rules somewhere, I’m sure,” She added, hastily, the lie coming out so naturally, “You probably don’t remember. We haven’t played this since you were a child.” She reached forward a hand, grabbing one of his, and she ran her fingers along the knuckles in a steady rhythm. “Don’t fret, darling. I could never win to you. Not ever. This time isn’t any different, really.” A long, tense silence, as Dandy pondered her words with that familiar scowl, his father’s scowl. She held her breath, already beginning to move back in her chair, in case a violent outburst was imminent. Finally, he relented, pulling his hand away, but relaxing his frame.

“I knew it,” He told her, with pride, “I knew I had to have beaten you. You’re not good enough at these games to win.” 

“Of course, I couldn’t Dandy,” She said, at once. He didn’t seem to notice her sigh of relief. As she hastily put away the pieces before he could possibly have a change of heart and knock them over suddenly, Dandy stood up, and put his hands in his pockets. 

“I think I’d like to play in here alone, now, Mother. I’m bored, playing with you.” 

“Oh, right. Of course.” Gloria stood at once, maintaining her tight lipped smile that hid everything else away. “I’ll - erm - I’ll call you when the supper is ready. Or ask Irina to.” He said nothing to her as she slipped back out the door, and she was too ashamed to admit to herself just how relieved she was to leave.   

~*~*~*~*~

When the late evening finally drew in, Gloria found herself in her room, sitting at her vanity, running her fingers in patterns across the table. She looked over at the clock sitting on her nightstand. Eight-fifty-seven.  _ Don’t be such a fool _ . She told herself.  _ Just stop.  _ She may have lifted her hands from the table, but she began to play with her curls, and twist at the string of pearls around her neck. Yet, she was smiling, even as her insides fluttered and churned. Then came a gentle rapping at the bedroom door, and Gloria turned at once.

“Yes, come in.” She said. Irina did so, albeit with some reluctance.

“I hope I’m not late. Or too early.” She told Gloria, timidly. Gloria smiled at her, warmed and endeared. 

“Nothing of the sort, Irina. Your timing’s perfect.” This made the young woman relax a little, and return her employer’s smile. “I’ve laid everything out for you, on the bed over there.” Irina nodded, wordlessly, and began her work in stride. “I really am grateful to you,” Gloria added, in haste, “for taking this new task on.”

“Of course, I would.” Irina said, matter-of-factly. “It’s what I’m here to do.” She began her work, with her usual, efficient stride. She removed the pearls first, and placed it on the vanity, then removed the dress, making quick work of the buttons, fingers nimble in a way that made Gloria turn bright pink without understanding why, and buttoned it up quickly again as she returned it to its silk lined hanger. As she returned it to its wardrobe, cradling it her arms, Gloria’s mind went entirely blank. No words came out of her mouth, and the silence became so palpable, it was mortifying.  _ No, no, no. You have to say something, anything at all. Oh, please,  _ please  _ don’t be the one to ruin it for yourself. _

“I - I started reading Jules Verne.” She blurted out, finally. Irina’s reply carried out from inside the closet,

“Oh?” She emerged again, and approached the bed for Gloria’s nightgown, all the while looking to her employer expectantly, with keen interest. 

“Yes, I -” She suddenly felt her face go bright red, and she twisted at her wrist. “We don’t seem to have  _ Around the World in Eighty Days _ so I found a different one.  _ Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea.  _ I rather like it. It’s - it’s different from what I normally read in my free time, but it’s very thrilling.”

“It’s a very good choice on your part.” Irina said to her, “I don’t think there’s a single one of his that isn’t thrilling.” She returned to Gloria, then, and instructed, “Arms out.” Gloria obeyed, and there was a momentary pause as Irina helped her with the nightgown. Her perfume smelled sweet, like a delicate arrangement of flowers. Gloria wondered how she’d never noticed it before.

“I noticed that Dandy stayed home this afternoon.” Irina observed, as she moved to collect Gloria’s robe. 

“He did.” She confirmed with a nod. “We had a lovely time together.” Not entirely true, Gloria thought, but in the grand scheme of things, it had been one of their better afternoons in a while. “He’s making friends. And that makes me happy.”

“That’s good.” Irina said, with a smile. “It’s nice to see you happy.” This comment made Gloria’s stomach flutter all the more, and she wasn’t able to conjure a proper response. 

“O-Oh! You’re date last week.” She finally managed, in sudden remembrance. “You’ve yet to tell me about that.”

“There isn’t that much to tell.” Said Irina, with a shrug. “It went well, I suppose. Food was excellent and Tom and Julia are engaged now.”

“That’s wonderful news.” Gloria told her, kindly. She couldn’t help but notice the one aspect of the evening Irina didn’t mention and her curiosity got the better of her. “What about the young man? The one that they’d asked you to go with?”

“Oh. Warren? He was nice enough, I suppose. He’s an academic. Likes to fish in the swamps.” 

“I see.” Gloria hesitated, before asking what she wanted next, “And . . . do you think that you’d like to see him again?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps, if he’s around. He seems like good company.” She spoke with what seemed genuine indifference, and Gloria had hoped that that would somehow make her feel better about the matter. It did, some. Although, not completely. 

She wouldn’t have asked the question at all, however, if she’d realized that Irina had finished with her duties.

“Is there anything else that you need me to do?” She asked. Gloria was unable to think up anything else there on the spot, and she answered with disappointing honesty,

“No. I think that will be all for tonight.” 

“Alright then.” Perhaps she was imagining things, but she could have sworn that she saw a flicker of disappointment in Irina’s narrow face. The young woman used one hand to play a little with her fine yellow curls, that seemed almost transparent in the light of the room. “I suppose I’ll be off to bed, then. Do you still want me to return tomorrow at nine o’clock?”

“Yes.” There was no hesitation in her words, no need to think if she wanted to do this again or not, to continue officially seeing the maid on a regular basis, “Yes. I do.” 

“Then I will see you tomorrow, at nine o’clock. Or probably before. Breakfast.” A nervous tittering laugh that had a melodic quality to it. She composed herself and nearly turned towards the door, but stopped herself. “You know, I’m glad about that, Mrs. Mott. This is a nice task. I like to talk with you.” 

“I-I like talking with you too.” Gloria managed, breathlessly, and unable to contain her grin. 

“Right. Well.” Irina straightened, a professional once again. “Have a good night, Mrs. Mott.” And she was gone again, closing the door distinctly without a slam.

Gloria went to bed that night with an exhilaration that seemed to cancel out her usual nightly anxieties, her worries over the mistakes she might have made that day, or what mistakes she would make in the following. The fact that she would see Irina again the following morning, and would be able to see her for every one of the following mornings, created more of a reassurance than she was prepared for. If it weren’t for the sudden reflection on her concerns for her son, it might have made for a restful sleep. Almost.


	7. Chapter Seven

**VII.**

_ October 2, 1952 _

There was something about being in the heart of Jupiter’s town that Irina absolutely loved. The Mott Manor, grateful to it though she was, sat atop a hill on the outskirts of town, and was therefore so isolated from the rest of society. She grew up in St. Petersburg, a city popular among tourists, and surrounded by noise, from cars and people, by buildings, and shops and vendors. The cigar factory where her father worked, the library where she spent her time with her brother, Mr. Harding’s pharmacy, were all within walking distance. She missed her former city life terribly, some days, and to wander past the shops that Jupiter had to offer never seemed to fail in providing her some of that nostalgia and familiarity, even if its size and population was greatly condensed by comparison. 

“Isn’t this exciting, Rina?” Julia asked her, as they walked at a heightened pace side by side, along the streets. It was all she asked, without clarification, and Irina wasn’t sure if she was referring to her recent engagement once again, or if she was referring to her first morning off in a while, allowing her to spend the time with her allotted social circle. Still, Irina didn’t want to do anything to deter her friend’s justifiably euphoric mood, so she smiled brightly and told her, 

“Of course.” She looked behind her, checking to make sure their other companions were still with them. She found Penny to be only a few paces behind, trying to engage in conversation with Julia’s younger sister, Peggy, who seemed more preoccupied by her crossed arms, and whatever it was that was on the other side of her. At the cusp young adulthood, Peggy looked a taller, darker, and more morose copy of her sister, and who looked to Irina with a wary, almost hostile gaze.

For her part, Penny actually appeared to be in visibly far better spirits than the last time Irina had seen her, since their conversation on the phone several weeks before. For Irina, who had listened to Penny’s account of her opioid-fueled days with the travelling freakshow and their actions towards Penny that would qualify as ambiguous consent at best and something far more sinister at worst, managing to steer her horrified tone to one of sincere sympathy, this served as something of a relief. 

Julia spotted a clothing boutique on the street corner, and practically dragged the group inside. Or, more accurately, dragged Irina, with Penny and Peggy wisely following along behind. The sound of crackling music throughout the shop, and the lingering sweet aroma of all the latest perfumes combined, brought back a sort of wave of nostalgia to Irina the moment she stepped inside. When she was nineteen years old, and her father’s arthritis had become too debilitating to allow him to continue work at the cigar factory, she took on a job at Robinsons, a department store close to her apartment building. She was assigned the cosmetics counter in the beauty department, and worked there six days a week for nearly a year, until her fifteen year old brother was old enough to work, and she had been able to properly save enough funds for a typing course at the business college. The job had been exhausting, of course, to her nineteen year old self, with long hours on her feet, dealing with customers both easy and difficult, women who relied on her to find the kits of rouge and tubes of lipstick with the perfect shades for them, putting their trust in a girl who had never so much as touched a case of mascara up to that point. Still, it was a job that she looked back on in pure fondness. It provided those final nudges she needed from girlhood into womanhood, and perhaps the skillset that she required for business college and her future employment when she found herself back in labor and service work. It provided her temporary reprieve from her apartment that smelled of mothballs, body odor of the adolescent boy, and stale cigar smoke, and it was where she met Kathy for the first time. She’d left almost right before the War, in November, which provided another strike in its favor. Nearly any shop or boutique never failed to remind her of Robinson’s somehow, yet she found herself that day being filled with an almost immense relief, that she was here as a paying customer, and would return to her position at the Mott house in a few short hours. 

“Oh, this dress would be  _ just perfect  _ for an engagement party, wouldn’t you agree?” Asked Julia, as she held up a dress of red velvet, with a V-line in the waist, and a white collar and buttons. Irina agreed, that she liked the dress very much, but wondered just how Julia would be able to justify such a dress as a costume befitting of a character from fiction. Julia pouted.

“Are you going to spoil everything I show you so?” She demanded, and Irina only laughed and held her hands up in defense.

“You’re the one who decided to hold your engagement on Halloween night, fitting theme and all.” She observed, not incorrectly.

“Tom’s mother’s the one who suggested it, actually,” Julia told her defensively, “And it sounded like such a charming idea at the time. Say,” She stopped and turned towards Irina, who didn’t even need to hear the rest of Julia’s thought before saying firmly,

“No,”

“Oh, please,” Julia trilled, looking at her almost sadly. Irina remained unmoved.

“No, I already told you. I probably wouldn’t be spending very much money today. If I spend anything at all.”

“Oh, Irina.” She said with a sigh, “You really ought to indulge just a little every once in awhile.”  

The truth was, Irina probably could afford to find something nice for herself, in more ways than one. She would want something for Tom and Julia’s function and wasn’t sure she cared to wear Nata’s pink Christmas dress again, even with its new pristine stitching along the side, and Mrs. Mott did provide her with a more than generous living wage. She would have more than enough saved away for such a frivolity, a fund she used on rare occasions for wants instead of needs; new valise, a fine silk scarf, her blue journal that currently rested inside her handbag, half of its pages filled. Still, she had the natural desire to hold firm to her ground, and not relent completely. 

“I will think about it.” She finally said, “Although that, particular dress wouldn’t be for me anyway.” This seemed to appease her friend, who then decided to see if perhaps Peggy could find a use for it, she needed something for her fall formal at the high school after all, and soon the attention of her fixated goal was moved to her sister, leaving Irina to drift away awkwardly, elsewhere about the shop. 

She wandered over in the direction of Penny, who seemed to have found herself in a similar situation. Her yellow hat hid away most of her mouse brown hair, highlighting the pretty, if not slightly melancholic features of her alabaster face. 

“They’ll probably be a while,” Penny remarked, once she’d spotted Irina, who informed her of Julia’s mission. “Mrs. Brennan insisted that Julia not come back unless she found something for Peggy. I think she’s hoping Peggy’ll find a beau at one of all these functions. Poor girl still doesn’t have one yet.” Irina regarded the sullen younger Brennan sister with considerable sympathy and pity, before she and Penny found themselves on their own sort of jaunt around the place.

“So,” Irina said, looking to Penny with concern. “How are you doing?” Penny answered, with almost complete nonchalance,

“In what sense?”

“Any of them. Take your pick.”

“Oh. Fine. I think.” She shrugged. “It’s definitely helped a little to talk to someone about it. You know, since my parents definitely can’t find out about any of it.” 

“That’s good.” She decided against making inquiries about Mr. and Mrs. Mason, why exactly they had to be left in the dark over something that affected their child so strongly. They pretended to consider a black floor-length gown in silence for several moments, before Irina confided, “I’ve been rather worried for you, actually.” This admission seemed to strike Penny with genuine surprise. 

“Really?”

“Yes, of course. I mean, you did look so distraught that morning in Woolworth’s. And what actually happened . . .” Her voice trailed off and she stopped herself as Penny looked away. “I mean. That would have to be distressing for anyone.”

“Oh, Irina, you really don’t need to bother yourself worrying about me. I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.” 

“I’m sure of that. But still.” 

“I know.” Penny smiled at her warmly, “And it’s very nice of you, really.” More quiet, as Penny let the black gown’s price tag, which she had been halfway examining, slip back out of her fingers. She moved it across the metal rack, and the wire hanger made a shrill squeaking noise as it moved, causing Irina to cringe. Her eyes had been gazing absently over the selection, looking, but paying little attention, when they stopped suddenly, in spite of herself. 

“What?” Penny asked, seeing Irina’s pause, and she looked to where the other woman looked, to find her response. It was a dress, of blue taffeta, her favorite color, with thin straps and a full skirt that carried a pattern of black flowers along the sides. It was sleek, beautiful, and Irina could practically envision herself in it, smoothing the skirt and running her hands gently along the material, or resisting the urge to let it spin out in a pretty blue pool around her. 

“Do you like it?” She asked. Irina hesitated. The thought of buying it almost made her feel guilty, as any of those sort of non-frugal purchases over a dollar often did. Yet she was suddenly filled with that pure want, like a child peering through the toy-store window the first day of December. She  _ did  _ like it, and the metamorphosis that spread across her face at the prospect of it being hers could be felt all through her.

“Perhaps. A little.” She managed, pathetically. 

“You should get it then,” Penny’s gentle prodding was a far cry from Julia’s similar commands. And yet, and yet . . . 

“Well - I - I mean . . . among other things, it needs a petticoat, and I don’t really have any of those.” Penny gave a dismissive wave of the hand.

“Oh, pish posh. You’re about my size. You could always borrow one of mine.” She offered a little smile. “If 

you don’t want to, that’s fine, but I think you should. It looks like you.” Irina’s face went bright pink. 

She bought the dress. The lady at the counter wrapped it up for her, and Irina revelled at the soft crackling of the tissue as it all was placed in a plain white box. She signed the check for it, writing her name in her pristine hand,  _ Irina S. Petrov _ . The lady took it, and she looked at the signature for what seemed like minutes, much longer than necessary, before she turned back up to Irina, her eyes narrowed.

“ _ That’s  _ your name, Miss?” She asked, tone expressing nothing short of disdain. Her nose was wrinkled, like she had just smelled a carton of sour milk. Irina was perhaps more surprised than she should have been, only for a moment, and merely said cooly,

“Yes, it is. Is there any sort of problem?” She spoke out every word as crisp and distinct as she could, putting an emphasis on the American part of her accent, the way her mother and father had trained her and her siblings to do in these sort of moments. The lady - Irina could practically hear the word COMMUNIST screaming in her head - continued to study Irina with her stony gaze, before she handed her the receipt slip, with a curt appreciation of her business and turned away. Irina felt herself breathe out a sigh of relief.

“What was that about?” Penny asked, wide-eyed, as they walked away. Irina could only shake her head and give a defeated wave of the hand.

“It happens all the time. Especially now, with everyone being so afraid of the Soviet Union and the communists and the H-bomb.” She made sure to lower her voice when she mentioned the thing, “Having a name like Petrov doesn’t really help. Everyone assumes because of it . . . even though my parents came here to  _ escape _ the communists.”

“Oh.” Penny said, seeming a little abashed. “I had no idea. That’s terrible.”

“It’s more of an irritation than anything else by this point. I’ve sort of learned not to let it bother me so much anymore.” 

There was a bit of a lull in the conversation after that. Penny remarked that she was a bit hungry, having skipped breakfast to come into town, and Irina admitted that she hadn’t eaten since the night before either, and probably wouldn’t have time to do so once she returned, and her stomach seemed to rumble uncomfortably in agreement. They decided to slip over to Woolworth’s a few shops down the way, for candy and cigarettes, which Penny drily referred to as the breakfast of champions. Irina made sure to ask Julia and Peggy, who still seem otherwise preoccupied, if they’d like anything, to which Julia declined on both of their behalves. Irina cradled the white box beneath her arm the entire time, grasping its side possessively with her fingers. 

Irina was in the process of paying for two five cent Hershey bars and a five cent package of Lucky Strikes, when a shelf containing a series of wooden pill boxes caught her eye. There was one in the shape of a butterfly, painted in red and yellow, that made Irina think of Mrs. Mott somehow and she found herself prompted to ask,

“How much for one of those boxes?” The checker, looked over, towards the direction of her pointing hand.

“Twenty cents and any of them are yours, Miss.” Irina didn’t hesitate, retrieving the box and handing him the last remaining half dollar piece in her coin purse. She pocketed the fifteen cents in change, and the little box in question, running her fingers affectionately across the painted finish. 

“Fan of butterflies too, are you?” Penny asked her, once they were back on the street. Irina attempted to seem less concerned with her response than she actually was, but was fairly sure that she didn’t succeed entirely.

“I do, I suppose. But it’s for a friend.” It was a sufficient enough response, although she found her insides fluttering even without actually mentioning Mrs. Mott by name. Dandy’s tantrums had become more of a common occurrence over the last week leading to the beginning of October, shouting nearly every hurtful thing that he could at his poor mother. She never let on that it perturbed her at all, but Irina felt that perhaps it would be best to do something nice for her, small though it may be. 

Penny had been confiding in her a little bit more, after that, mentioning one of the freaks writing to her, wanting to apologize properly for what had happened, and how she had reluctantly agreed, when a cheerful voice practically apparated behind them,

“Well, well. Fancy running into you.” Irina turned, in the midst of breaking off little pieces of chocolate one at a time, to see Warren Vial, smiling brightly at the two of them. 

“Oh. Warren. Hi.” Irina said, a little startled at the sight. Somehow, she had never considered the prospect of seeing him again, after the other night. “Wh-what are you doing here?”

“I was looking for a bookshop, actually. Most of my books are back at home with my mother and I can’t bear to read the same issue of Life magazine another time. What about you?” Irina felt herself smile, perhaps more genuinely that she would have initially thought she could, and surprised to find that she didn’t wish herself a thousand miles away, as she thought she might. 

“We’re here with Julia, dress shopping. Girls’ morning. You know how it goes.” In truth, she wasn’t sure that  _ she  _ knew. She’d never actually moved in herds of young women before, not in high school or in her adulthood. This was the first time she had ever really been invited to such a thing before. Still, Warren nodded in seeming understanding that she found endearing. 

“Looks like you’ve done well for yourself.” He observed, pointing to her parcel. He pointed to her chest, suddenly, causing her to flinch a little, and added, “Swell necklace.” 

“O-oh. Thank you.” Irina grabbed at the thing self-consciously, fiddling it between her fingers. 

“You had it on the other night, didn’t you?”

“I did. Good memory.” He grinned impishly at her, and scratched the back of his head, in that way that boys always seemed to. She found herself entrapped by the awkwardness that followed, was suddenly and keenly aware of Penny’s presence next to her. “If you wanted to find a decent bookshop, there should be one over on the next street corner. Although the library back down that way is also nice. You can’t keep the books, obviously, but they’ve got a pretty nice selection. They have a whole shelf just devoted to Eastern philosophy so perhaps you might be interested in that.”

“That’s nice,” Warren began, with a raise of his thick eyebrows, “But how would you know-”

“I . . . may have been browsing it the last time they were there.” Irina admitted, sheepishly. “It sounded so interesting when you were talking about it at dinner.”

“Is that right?” He seemed pleased in a way that seemed new. Perhaps he wasn’t used to people taking such an active interest in his topics of discussion. She’d always thought that doing so was just the decent thing to do when it came to the passions of other people, and you could always learn something new in the process. She’d learned practically the entire history of Russian music from her father, who had actually been a scholar back in the original St. Petersburg.

“Well, I hope you’re settling in okay.” Irina said, in a change of subject that she hoped would close up the conversation and let her back inside the clothing boutique. It was an especially hot day for October, and the chocolate was beginning to melt and stick to her hand. 

“Yes, actually. And I’ve been meaning to ask you. Well. I mean, I had such a good time the other night and I had fun talking with you, so, erm. If you wanted to, we could go see a movie or something like that over at the cinema. It’s air conditioned and everything, and I hear that  _ Singing in the Rain  _ is excellent.”

“Oh. Well, um. I really only get Thursday mornings off, you know. . .” Irina trailed off, looking down at the concrete, the hope being, this incomplete thought would fill its hopefully clear answer in for her. 

“They do matinees, there.” Penny offered, trying to be helpful. 

“Very well, we could do a matinee, then. Please say you will. I haven’t made that many friends out here that aren’t my cousin.” He spoke so earnestly, that she was left at a complete loss as to what to do. She knew she wanted to say no. It was only right, knowing where this was meant to be led. She wasn’t stupid. It wouldn’t do to lead the poor boy on. Yet, wasn’t this what she was supposed to want, what Julia and her sister, through her letters, always worrying on her behalf over? Even still, she did enjoy his company. He was nice, smart, perhaps funny if his nerves weren’t getting the better of him. On strictly friendly terms, she tried to convince herself that she couldn’t find the harm.

“Alright, then. Why not?” She finally said, with a half-hearted shrug. Warren seemed thrilled, promising to meet her at the Cinema the next Thursday bright and early, as he let them go, on his way to the library. Irina ignored the inquisitive looks that Penny was giving her, as they returned to the boutique, and back to Julia, who seemed irritated by their absence. The rest of the morning, Irina didn’t do much more talking. She found her attentions vaguely drawn, suddenly, to poor Peggy Brennan, dark and lanky, looking so unhappy with her designated lot in life. There was something in her mannerisms, the way that her eyes lingered on one of the young salesgirls for a little too long, the look she gave whenever Julia eagerly mentioned boys who would love to accompany her to the formal, as though she were eating shards of glass. Perhaps the two shared more solidarity than either would realize, or acknowledge. Perhaps, Irina thought, as she broke away another piece of chocolate, she wasn’t nearly as alone in this world as she so often believed.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Easter egg references to 'Price of Salt' in this chapter


	8. Chapter Eight

**VIII.**

_ October 8, 1952 _

Gloria’s fingers played a cheerful melody along the piano keys, one that defied the dark storm clouds outside. It was late afternoon, and she was filling the idle hours as best she could. With Dandy gone once again, and Irina busy tending to her daily responsibilities, there were more than enough idle hours to fill. As always, she had planned on tending to her garden, but with the rain continuing to pour down at a deafening volume, it was clear that was to be waylaid for another time. That was how she found herself in the library, surrounded by books for ages, in the company of her piano, truly realizing for the first time since she was a child just how long a day actually was.

Idle hands are the devil’s workshop, Nanny Cesnik used to tell her, usually as a way to get her to practice her scales, or her French or Italian for another hour. Even without such firm encouragements of productivity, Gloria never had been good at sitting around doing nothing, not like her mother, who could seemingly disappear for days at a time in her room with one of her migraines. Once, when Dandy was still only a baby, Dora had to practically force Gloria into her bed with a high fever, when the woman refused to go on her own, insisting all the while that she was perfectly fine. Even when her head was burning up, and clouded with mucus, she refused to accept any trace of unproductivity within herself.

  She moved from one piece of sheet to another with efficiency and precision, making sure the pages didn’t become skewed in her haste. Her posture was immaculate, back arched, and shoulders squared. It had been decades since she was a child, yet she could still practically sense Nanny Cesnik behind her, that metal ruler in hand, ready to strike if she so much as slouched even a little. She almost wished that Nanny Cesnik were actually lurking behind her, like a predator sensing a few drops of blood. It would allow her to be in at least one person’s company for a little while, at least. She had spent far too many days cooped up alone in this house. With Dandy so adamantly against finding a wife or otherwise making social connections, they hardly, if ever, attended any social gatherings anymore, and it appeared that other society families weren’t keen on seeing them outside of those settings. Her gardens provided her with some solace, but that was often so fleeting. Lately, she’d been pulling herself into the books lined along the library’s shelves, the books that kept her company as a gangly and awkward teenager. Jane Eyre and Rochester and the possible ghost in the attic, Marmee and the March sisters, every last one of Andrew Lang’s fairy books. Even they, however, couldn’t fill the seemingly bottomless void forever though.

“Mrs. Mott?” A quiet voice said from the doorway. Her playing came to an abrupt end, fingers slamming themselves on the keys, as she turned sharply to see who had interrupted her. She relaxed, her expression softening, when she realized it was Irina.

“I’m sorry,” She said, her hand gravitating to fix her hair, “I-I didn’t see you.”

“Oh, it’s - it’s alright. I didn’t mean to startle you,” Irina replied, as she stepped further into the room. She was balancing a tray into her hand. “I brought you some sandwiches and a few sodapops too. Dandy is still out, and Mrs. Bailey is tending to her sick grandson, so it’s just me but . . . I figured you should eat something.” She looked down towards the tray, smiling a small, nervous smile. “I - I was going to go grocery shopping today but with the storm . . . I hope this is alright.” Gloria’s stomach fluttered at the gesture, and perhaps a little because it had been hours since she had eaten.

“Thank you,” She said, “You’re very kind.” Irina nodded, and placed the tray down onto the desk. Gloria couldn’t help but watch her movements, her profile, fair as it was. She was almost ashamed of herself. How could she forget about Irina? She had been feeling sorry for herself in a moment of solitude, forgetting entirely about this woman whose company had come to mean so much.

“You play beautifully.” Irina told her. Gloria felt a blush prickle at her cheeks. “That was the Bacchanale from Samson and Delilah, wasn’t it?”

“Oh. Yes. One of my favorites.”

“One of mine too. My father used to play Saint Saens for hours in our house.” She went quiet, then, as though she remembered something, and she straightened, preparing to leave.

“I’m sorry for interrupting,” She finally said, “I should let you be. I’ll come back in a bit for the tray.” Gloria’s heart sank deep into her chest as she watched the young woman prepare to depart. The room seemed ready to swallow her alive, the loneliness of it too all consuming. The words rose up in her throat, before she could stop them,

“Irina, would you mind staying for a bit?” She asked it quickly, almost stammering over herself. “I - I mean, since it is just the two of us . . . you could eat too, if you haven’t yet. And . . . I could do with the company.” Here, she was taken with the temptation to hide her face away. They’d just seen each other earlier that morning, when Irina helped Gloria into her day dress, and she would see her again later that night when she would help Gloria out of it. Irina had to be completely weary of her by now. Yet the woman only smiled at her, gray eyes warm and kind.

“I suppose that wouldn’t be a problem, if that’s what you wanted.”

“Yes,”

So she stayed, and they arranged a little inside picnic, of sorts, across the long, low risen table in the middle of the room, surrounded by sofas and chairs. Irina took her place in the pale green loveseat, her skirt billowing out across her legs and the velvet cushion. They split the sandwich evenly down the middle, and distributed the colas, which were still cold, the bubbles tickling at her nose.

“You’re an absolute angel for letting me monopolize your time so,” She finally said, once they had settled in. She’d taken a few bits of ham and chicken, and was watching Irina as she held her own sandwich half delicately between her fingers.

“I wouldn’t say you’re monopolizing my time,” Irina replied, looking at Gloria with a kind, almost maternal sternness. “And I don’t mind it anyhow.” She set her food, hardly touched, back onto her plate, and set her hands into her lap. “You can tell me about what you’ve been reading. Or something else, if you’d like.” Books had become their standard fare of conversation, during their mornings and evenings together. Irina seemed to have new books to talk about every other day, and many of them, the ones not summarizing lost civilizations, sounded enough to keep Gloria up for days if read in the dark.

“Well, I did finally finish 20,000 Leagues,” She said, glancing over towards the shelves and shelves she’d just been thinking about, “Which was excellent, I must say, but . . . I was thinking that perhaps now . . . now I could recommend something for you to read?” Her stomach twisted a little as she said it, and she looked cautiously too Irina, hoping her request wasn’t asking too much.

“I suppose that’s fair.” She replied, unperturbed, “And I did just finish Island of Dr. Moreau. What did you have in mind?”

“O-oh, well . . .” She quickly racked the shelves now, and stood up to retrieve one book that stood out to her. She placed a copy of Oliver Twist before Irina, her own fingers running across the cover, which carried few creases. “I know that you enjoy adventure stories, and this has its own sense of adventure to it, with Oliver and his band of thieves. It was one of my very favorites as a child.” Irina considered the book carefully for a moment,

“I’d love to read it.” She finally said, “I haven’t read much Dickens.”

“Wonderful,” She was beginning to relax, now, as she and the younger woman began to find a rhythm in their conversation. As they continued talking, she found herself studying Irina’s features. Her profile was quite lovely, and her hair, against the light of the room, was the color of champagne. It had to be like clouds to the touch, so soft against fingers. How had Gloria not noticed that before?

“Mrs. Mott?” Irina was asking, and she realized she had let her thoughts distract her. “Is everything alright?” Gloria snapped herself back to the present, and ignored the radiating heat in her cheeks.

“Yes, perfectly fine. I was just . . . distracted, I’m sorry.” She looked down, towards her bottle of cola, and away from Irina directly. “I don’t know what came over me just then.”

“Perhaps the rain just has that effect.” Irina said.

“I - yes.” There was only a small hesitation. “The rain.”

She looked back, to see that Irina’s attention was focused on two of the portraits that hung above the fireplace. Gloria froze. She had forgotten those were even there.

“Mother and Father,” She explained quietly.

“Those were your parents?” Irina turned to face her now.

“Yes.” She shifted around uncomfortably.

“It’s strange,” She said. “You don’t look a thing like either of them.”

It was true. Gloria, really didn’t. She looked to the paintings reluctantly, seeing the images of her father, with his round forehead, round belly, round everything, with tired eyes, and wiry copper hair. Her mother, lean and bony, with her turn of the century dress draped across the floor, the oil on canvas perfectly capturing the absence of warmth in every one of her brittle features. Both of them had begun to gray in hair when the paintings had been commissioned, that much Gloria knew, not that there was any evidence of that in their immortalized images.

“I’d nearly forgotten that those were even in here,” She admitted, repeating her previous thought aloud now. “I don’t - I don’t much associate this room with either of them, you see.”

“What room do you associate them with, then?” Irina asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. The dining room, perhaps. The ballroom. Any place where there were grand social events. My mother was famed for her parties back in the day.”

“I think I understand.” Irina looked to her then, with a knowing gaze. “This is a room of solitude. It’s where you liked to be alone. Like a safe haven, almost.”

“Yes. Exactly.” As she became more relaxed, she found herself becoming even bolder, speaking more eloquently as she found her words. “It became a place where I could escape from all that. Lock myself away with music and books. Of course, there are some memories I have of mother and father in here. Father doted on me as a child. He would buy me all the books that I could ever ask for. Mother . . . I remember Mother coming in here to coax me out. Because I never wanted to - I never wanted to go on dates. With the boys she wanted me to, I mean.”

“You didn’t enjoy going on dates?” She asked, sounding surprised.

“Well - I . . . no. Not especially. They always made me so nervous. I could make myself so sick with worry -” She stopped herself, suddenly and reached again for the remnants of her sandwich. “Enough about me and my social life from years ago. It’s dreadfully boring. Let’s talk about you for a bit, shall we?”

“Oh . . . alright, then. What did you wish to know?” The truth was, there were many things Gloria wanted to ask, many curiosities, many things she desired to know about her new friend. She couldn’t bring herself to ask any of them, though, in the end.

“Well . . . how are you?” Stupid, cowardly, pedestrian . . .

“Oh, fine, fine. I suppose I have nothing to complain of.” She didn’t appear to mind the question, shrugging noncommittally. “Nothing really of interest happening to me, personally. My friend . . . she’s getting married in the spring. She’s the one that’s having an engagement party on Halloween.”

“Oh, that’s right. You were telling me about that.”

“Right. I suppose that’ll be exciting. I’m not really one for parties much but . . . Julia’s famed for hers, so -”

“Are you going to go with anyone?”

“Oh . . . Um.” Irina hesitates. “I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“What about that young man? The one you went to dinner with.” She pressed.

“Who? Warren? I could. I suppose.” She said it so pensively, as Gloria’s stomach began to churn and writhe. She looked to her sandwich, and realized that she had begun tearing it into more halves. She set it back onto its plate, frowning.

“I could ask him tomorrow.” Irina added, after a moment.

“Oh?”

“Y-yes.” She began to play with her hair, arranging it back behind her ears, “We’re going to see a matinee at the dollar theater.”

“Oh.” Her words had become more clipped, and her face grew hot suddenly. “I don’t think you’d told me that.”

“Well, it was only decided recently. I - ran into him while I was out with Julia and Penny last week. I said yes since the theater has air conditioning. And candy. And - and I haven’t been to a movie in almost a few years now. . .”

“I’m sure it’ll be fun for you.” She tried not to be so cool, and she wasn’t sure if she succeeded.

There was an uncomfortable silence between them, then, and Gloria regretted speaking at all. Why did she say anything about it at all, if she was going to react so childishly? Why did it bother her so much to begin with? Irina was a grown woman. Her choices of whom she would or wouldn’t see weren’t anyone’s business. Certainly not Gloria’s.

“You know, speaking of last Thursday,” Irina said, after a moment. The cadence of her lilted voice seemed bright and unphased, “I’ve actually got something I’ve been meaning to give you. A small present.”

“A present?” Gloria asked, curious. Her stomach had dropped again, but this time, it was a different sort of feeling. One she liked.

“I - I found it in Woolworth’s and it made me think of you. Oh, it’s so silly, I’m sorry . . .” She reached into the pocket of her dress, “Oh, darn it, I may have left it in my room. I could go and get it -”

Her thought was interrupted by the sudden loud bang coming from outside the room. Gloria jumped.

“That must be Dandy,” She said, standing to her feet. “I wasn’t expecting him home so soon.” Irina momentarily forgotten, she opened the door to the library a crack,

“Dandy? Is that you?”

“LEAVE ME ALONE, MOTHER!” Was the reply she got in return. He was sobbing, loudly. She could hear it plain as day. “I’m never leaving this house ever again and I’m never speaking to anybody! So everyone just LEAVE ME ALONE!” There was a stomping up the stairs, before his bedroom door slammed shut, with a loud, shuddering bang. For a moment, Gloria didn’t move. The worry was quick to consume her, her guilt paralyzing.

“I should - I should probably go and see what’s the matter.” She said, finally. She looked back towards Irina, her expression stricken.

“Yes,” Irina said, showing so much kindness and understanding in her eyes that it was almost painful to see,

“I hate to end this so suddenly . . . though I shouldn’t take very long. If you wanted to wait . . .” She herself was unable to wait for a response, leaving the room with another apology, as she rushed up the stairs.

******

The door to Dandy’s bedroom was slightly ajar when she approached it. His face was hidden beneath pillows, she could tell, the sounds of crying and sniffling muted. She hesitated, perhaps afraid of his possible rejection of her, before she finally gave a gentle rap on the door.

“Dandy? Darling, may I come in?” There was no response, other than more muffled sobs. There wasn’t any explicit orders for her to leave, however, and she decided to push the door open further. She found her son curled up on his bed, the comforter wrinkled beneath him, hugging his pillows tightly to his chest. She approached the bed cautiously,

“Is everything alright?”

“No, of course not!” He replied, sharply. He lifted his head, with a glare in her direction, and she didn’t need to look at his face long before a sharp pang came to her chest at the sight. There were still tears streaming down his cheeks. They weren’t his crocodile tears, she was certain. She knew her little boy, and she knew when his anguish was sincere. “It’s all horrible, and I hate it!”

“What’s horrible?” She pressed. He didn’t answer, merely burying his face back into his soaking pillow, with another wail. His shoulders shook, and one fist hit the mattress as forcefully as it could.

“I can get you something if you’d like me to,” Gloria said to him, “Hot chocolate, perhaps? Or some brandy?” No response. She sighed. “Or I suppose I should simply leave you be. I don’t know why I bothered you at all - I’m sorry.” She turned back around, prepared to leave, to return to the library,

“No!” His voice stopped her, and she froze, turning back to face him. “You can’t leave. Stay here and comfort me, Mother!”

“Y-you’d like me to stay?” She asked.

“That’s what I’m saying. Don’t be stupid.” Even with his harsh words, his expression had softened and she had no choice but to relent. Not that there was any conceivable way that she wouldn’t.

“Alright then.”

She approached the bed again, this time sitting down at the edge. Her fingers laced themselves through her hair, saying nothing as she waited for him to cry himself out.

“Okay.” She said, finally, once he had reached the final few sniffs and hiccups, “Tell me. What’s happened?”

“M-m-my clown got m-mad at me.”

“Oh . . .” She paused, and looked down towards him again, “Oh, darling. I’m sorry.”

Dandy didn’t respond right away, couldn’t respond, instead shifting himself closer to her and burying his head into her lap.

“Why, Mother? Why would he suddenly hate me?”

“Oh, Dandy,” She said, gently, “I’m sure that he doesn’t hate you.” 

“Then how would you explain him being mean to me?” He demanded.

“Oh, I don’t know, darling. There could be several possible reasons. None of which mean that he hates you.” She spoke gently, slowly, “We all have days where we lose our patience. When we want to be alone. You can understand that, can’t you?” She hadn’t intended on sounding so much like Greta Garbo, but it seemed to reach through to Dandy.

“I suppose.” 

“And you two have been practically been inseparable for the past few weeks.”

“That’s true . . . . . it’s just -” He faltered, “I haven’t really had any friends in forever. Not since -” Gloria closed her eyes with a frown.

“I know.” She reached down to hug him as tightly as she was able. “But that isn’t necessarily true. I - I mean . . . you’ve had me, haven’t you?”

“Oh,” There was a pause, and he sat up, tilting his head to look in her direction better. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”   

She tried not to look as though his response surprised her, touched her, made her feel some semblance of relief.

“It’s been just the two of us for such a long time,” He said, “Since - since Father . . .” He couldn’t bring himself for finish, and the flash of memory, still so vividly ingrained, flashed through her mind. 

“To be honest, Dandy, I don’t know where I would have been after all of it, if I didn’t have you.” She went pink, but she maintained her gaze on him 

“That’s funny,” He told her, “I could probably say the same about you.”

They let these facts ruminate in silence, for a bit, let themselves soak in each other’s words. The minutes stretched out longer and longer as they passed, other things not necessarily needing to be said. Like the question of her staying, for instance. She would stay for as long as he needed. 

****

It was several hours before Gloria was finally able to slip out of Dandy’s room, as her little boy slept, well past midnight. The rain had finally calmed, into gentle taps against the window glass throughout the house. Her eyes were heavy, her physique weak. She remembered that she left a few of her things in the library, several books primarily. The room’s lights had been turned off and her belongings stacked perfectly on one of the tables. For a moment, she couldn’t help but feel like there should have been more. Dishes, specifically, from - 

She remembered, and felt the disappointment and guilt rush through her, in the form of heat to her cheeks. Irina was most certainly long asleep by now. How long had she been waiting, before finally giving up. Gloria sighed, as she gathered her books. As she did, she noticed something extra, unfamiliar, sitting on the table as well. Tucking her books under her arm like a schoolgirl, she reached for it gingerly, as though it would break. It was a little pillbox, in the shape of a butterfly. With it, was a note, on a piece of crisp, blue stationery, written pristinely, 

_ I feel terrible for not giving this to you in person, but I did promise I would one way or the other. I saw it in a shop the other day, and it made me think of you, somehow. - Irina  _

The smile Gloria possessed was not entirely conscious, and unmistakable. She clutched the little box to her chest, protectively, and didn’t release her grip until she had reached her bedroom. She went to bed, with that same warmth, mixed in with a glimmer of hope. Perhaps she and Dandy really were on their way back to being something they had been before, in a place of solidarity against a cruel world; and her lonely soul hadn’t felt so anything but in over a decade.      

**Author's Note:**

> Vyrozhdennyy Durak - Translates as 'degenerate fool'  
> Mu'dak - Translates as asshole


End file.
